"Pick up that blade, Nab," vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, "and stab him. ‘You escape from your own convent, at great personal danger. “Drugs, mainly. I had that coming. I shall count it a privilege. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. Enfeebled by his wound, Wild had lost much of his strength, though nothing of his ferocity and energy,—and fiercely assailing Blueskin, he made a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to apprehend him. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs.
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