Anna was singing as she used to sing. . . Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. She had expected sympathetic admiration, but instead the whole Widgett family, except Teddy, expressed a common dismay. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. Just as he had arrived at the mouth of the drain, and Jack felt certain he must be discovered, a loud shout was raised from the further end of the field that the fugitive was caught. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought.
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