‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. This time they would call it murder. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. “I’m rather a persistent person. These were presently joined by a regiment of foot.
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