There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. And that’s why I’m at your service.
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