“What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. " The clock tinkled ten. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "I need not remind you, Sir Rowland, that I am aware you are deeply implicated in the Jacobite plot which is now known to be hatching. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. ” “Please tell me why?” she asked. It does not matter to him either way. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. He flipped the television off. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction.
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