"A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt. "Adieu, my worthy uncle. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. They could no longer stay in one place. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant.
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