'Here, Captain;' my captor thrust me in front of him. 'I found this lad following you.' My captor proved to be a thick-set man in middle years with a large pistol.
Captain Ferintosh took one look at me and swore. Why men have to swear so often, I do not know. I am glad that women have not adopted that most demeaning habit. 'That's not a boy, that's a blasted woman.'
'It's me,' I said helpfully.
'Is this Andrew Hepburn's girl?' The woman stepped closer to me. 'Is this the one who wanted to see you?'
'That's her.' Captain Ferintosh said.
'Bring her along.' The woman said. 'We'll decide what to do with her later.'
Now in all the best romances, either I would have made a dash for freedom, or gallant Captain Ferintosh would have spoken up in my defence. In reality, with an ugly brute of a
