Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. His frowning gaze came back to her. . “I don’t know, John. . He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
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