As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. . They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. ’ ‘Was it yours?’ Insulted beyond bearing, Melusine lost her temper. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. My profession has hardened me.
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