He recognised this object at once. If he decided to watch television upstairs with his mother, she would probably retire before he did, but she was a light sleeper. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. And who knew if the men that Gerald had posted there would follow her to protect her somewhere else? In truth, where were these soldiers? She could not see them, although she assiduously searched the mist-shrouded square from the vantage point of the bay window in the large first floor room which had become her headquarters. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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