She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. He died in the war. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. To-night they say he will be conscious. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him.
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