Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men. ’ ‘They? How many are there?’ ‘Oh, peste. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said.
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