’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. He always followed by showering her with kisses, embracing her tightly as she squirmed and giggled. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. She backed away from him. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. ” He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. Die game. ’ There was a chuckle in his voice. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed.
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