‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Still silence everywhere. "When it thunders, the thief becomes honest," muttered Wood. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game.
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