He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. "There won't be much left for you," he said. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. It was as much as I could do to prevent him flying out of the house there and then and coming after you.
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