Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. This he carried on by procuring witnesses to swear away the lives of those persons who had incurred his displeasure, or whom it might be necessary to remove. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. Wood—and after him came his daughter.
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