“Yes. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. “This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters— and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. You shall tell me if I am wrong. ‘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. Michelle said the police bungled the investigation, though. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. The by now familiar dramatic sigh came. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. You needn’t be in any doubt about it.
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