It was cheating, pitiful cheating. But you must promise me not to go near that abandoned hussy at Willesden. And then amusement crept into Alderley’s chest and he let his pistol hand fall. She reloaded. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. In a sense it alters nothing. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. Give me but leave to try.
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