It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. I knew it. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. “Delicious!” she murmured. But she was only able to save a corner of the letter.
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