What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. Mike knocked on the door.
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