Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. ‘Well, we’ll just go on up and have a look at this here passage, missie, shall we?’ ‘Have I not been saying so?’ snapped Melusine, exasperated. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Her heavy pistol came up again, although she did not rise. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. But Michelle’s heart seemed to grow fonder to the subject proportionally to Lucy’s avoidance of it.
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