. ’ Melusine hardly dared believe she had heard him aright. She bathed frequently with ash and lye soap stolen from traders. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. I will light the stove, and there shall be some coffee presently. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away.
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