Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. ‘Your niece, ma’am. . “It isn’t fair. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. You ignore me! That’s not a good way to treat your only friend. His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe.
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