" "Mr. ” “Excuse me? You are Hitler Youth?” Lucy replied, astounded. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. So, then, when McClintock offered the coveted haven, Spurlock became afire to dramatize the idea. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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