It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business. She rested her head upon his shoulder.
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