He was a fool. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. ’ ‘Eh? Why did you not say so, man?’ demanded Hilary crossly. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. For so far she had kept it uncashed. ‘What Frenchman would that be, missie? We ain’t let no one escape.
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