It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. He would have to make sure of her silence. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. “It is a very pleasant place,” said Ann Veronica, biting a rhododendron stalk through, and with that faint shadow of a smile returning to her lips. .
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