“It is unimportant,” she said. ‘She’s still bleeding. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. But go on. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. But one must disguise oneself. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work.
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