She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’ Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. And now her father said she must not go. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female.
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