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‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. . The ladder was now within reach. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. Oui, dans la note.

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