Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. The inn was a military haunt. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. . He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. ’ ‘A French ghost?’ ‘Well, it ain’t a rat this time, Major, I can promise you that,’ Pottiswick had rejoined, his tone affronted. “I——” The door opened, and the doctor entered softly. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she.
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