Chapter Eight For an instant in the silence that followed, shocked into immobility, Melusine stared in horror at the body lying there so still. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. Italians. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. ‘Keep watch, Jack! If Captain Roding fails to keep the man out of the house, run upstairs and warn me quickly. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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