The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. Jack did not advance to meet her. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us.
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