‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often. He's got the gift of the gab. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel.
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