Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. Melusine sighed with relief and set to work by the light of the lantern. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. He had just passed through a terrific physical test. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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