’ Melusine’s eyes narrowed and she drew back. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Abruptly he gripped her wrist.
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