I was worried. I was extremely subtle—in fact, as devious as Melusine. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘That is my mother. That is what I don't understand. He added succinctly, ‘Windows are open. I don’t care. David Courtlaw. I hate what I am.
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