Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. The man was dangerous. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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