Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. I also have eyes, and I have seen the picture. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. Melusine opened her eyes at him. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. I hate this part of the world.
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