He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. 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. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Here are all our harlequins and columbines of the spoken and written drama. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. ’ ‘Don’t be stuffy, Hilary,’ admonished his betrothed. She colored faintly. ‘That’s better.
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