He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. “You certainly are. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. “You are in trouble,” he said. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. It was, in fact, a group of interests quite unlike any other group, peculiar and special, and one to be thoroughly ashamed of. We already had a place to mislay blame. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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