Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. Water soaked her through in five minutes. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. At last—I told a story. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. You say you love me and want to marry, but those are strong, potent words, words meant to last a lifetime. When he’s found out where she’s staying, I’ll have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest.
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