’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Agents were dispersed in all directions—offers the most tempting held out to induce the wavering to join the Chevalier's standard. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. I tell you once more, I'll say and do nothing to get you into trouble.
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