She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. “Nevertheless,” Hill said doggedly, “I am here to speak to you alone. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. . ” He paused. The response of her body was enough that she lazily opened her eyes.
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