He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. Either Sydney or Mr.
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