’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. “I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. ” Sir John coughed. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate.
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