Sentence The Threehundredandtwelfth

 

And satisfied that the Addisonian auteur had not the faintest idea of that which he had so lightly brushed the surface of with his wings, Pherson Dalwhinnie relaxed the finger which had been, in the voluminous pockets of his jacket, pressing against the trigger of his SIG Sauer, stood and muttered a somewhat ambiguous trigger-warning to Allan, about expecting the unexpected, and the possible tribulations of mixing with 'the wrong sort', and keeping the eyes on the back of his head open, while also keeping a sharp look-out ahead of himself, which produced a puzzled frown, then bade him farewell and as Massie returned to the groggery of The Ship Inn, Pherson sauntered down the High Street in the same direction as the two girls who had been dining with Massie in the pub – he would need to learn their names but there was no hurry, for he knew their destination, that archaeologist Cristobal's house – so there was no need actually to follow them, just amble in the same direction; which was when . . . . .