Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. “A move of any sort would certainly be fatal.
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