’ Melusine looked from his coarse red features to the pistol, and froze inside as she recognised his intention. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. ‘I thought, you see, that we might as well enter by the same way our intruder had done. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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