He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. He had chosen his time well. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. The decision had been sound. He was now within a foot of the bar, and introducing himself into the hole, speedily worked his way to it. From the first I could see that neither believed my story. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath.
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