"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. Too late now. The movie droned on, the sounds becoming manageable except for the frequent high-pitched screams of young girls when a poltergeist manifestation would leap out of a shadow. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. Gerald watched her perambulations in silence, his heart wrung.
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