There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. ” “Bit starchy,” said Ann Veronica, and altered the key abruptly. .
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