A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. . Thames Darrell MUST die.
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