Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. He recognised this object at once. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with.
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