Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir. I will arise myself. I will tell you our plans on the way to the station.
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