She listened, her suspicions confirmed. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. The musician. It was hard to meet that gaze. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Anything that might stir the sense of love And God has mocked me through it all.
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