His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. Mind, I am anticipating events. Then he sensed the trap. “I did it for love of you,” he said. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further.
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