There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. But, after all, what does that matter? He is very much taken with me. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse.
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