‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. And, now, to find a messenger. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. ‘Not from the nuns, no. She throws a sort of spell over us all.
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