The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Soon I shall make my début, that it will be known that I am the real Melusine Charvill, and then I shall not require the services any longer of this imbecile of a Gérard. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. When I went I was refused admittance. Give me the chisel, Blueskin.
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