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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. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. 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. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. ’ A question leapt into Everett’s head and he recalled the letter to the Abbess.
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