He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. Marry, come up! I'll see who's to be obeyed. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. The police are concerned in it in either event. ‘It is imbecile that you are. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions.
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