’ Shock threw Melusine’s heart out of kilter and she looked instinctively towards the major. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. This at once thrilled her and worried her. “Never heard anything of it. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ burst from Melusine indignantly. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. You'd not know what to do without me, and shan't drive me off. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw.
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