And so your Melusine is busy trying to prove that she is the real one. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. It makes no difference. ‘Alors, now I am also a murderer. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street.
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