" "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
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