And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. I must finish it at home. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. How could she tell him what indeed already began to puzzle herself, why she had borrowed that money at all? The plain fact was that she had grabbed a bait. On the orders of Mr Jarvis, that were.
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