Last night Mr. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. She leaned forward and addressed him. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. He rested on one elbow. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss.
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