It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. But he only went home again to Paddington. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Her hips were wide and her athletic legs supported a very large rear end, which she flaunted by 140 wearing her gym shorts two sizes too small. On the other hand, there was a subconscious impression that she would be able to read instantly anything unclean in a man's eye. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. Now tell me, if you can, something about the man who calls himself Valade. Melusine saw fire in his eyes and a streak of heat rushed through her to match it.
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