There is nothing more subversive of dignity than an unpremeditated sneeze. Not that Saul Aronson had much dignity to spare. On the contrary, he was an extremely modest young man, with apparently one great passion in his life, the service of Shagarach. On this occasion his resounding ker-choo proclaimed from afar the arrival of that personage and threw a ridiculous damper on the rising temper of the cousins. Seeing the two strangers approach, Harry fumbled out a farewell and withdrew with an air of languid bravado. Shagarach watched him as he passed.
"Follow that young man for a few hours," he said to Aronson. "I should like to know his afternoon programme."
Aronson hung on his master's lips and trotted off to obey his command.
"I am Shagarach, come to defend you," he said to the prisoner, still flushed with the remembrance of the quarrel.
"Who sent you to defend me?" was the curt reply.
"Your friend, Miss Barlow."
"Emily?"
Robert's voice grew softer.
"I have some questions to ask you."
"What have I done to be questioned as if I were a cut-throat? What have I done to be jailed here like some wild beast, before whom life would not be safe if he were let at large?"