“But what will happen to us now, Lucilla?”
“Well, George Cuscaden will be here again, and that’ll make Val feel better. And you’ll help, won’t you?”
“Certainly.”
And, on the strange assurance, they separated.
It was much later that Owen, from his own room, heard the door of the study immediately below him, open once more, and then shut.
Barely audible, but still unmistakable, he heard a steady stream of sound, rising and falling, easily to be identified as the Canon’s voice.
“Good God, what more can he have to say about it?” reflected Quentillian. He was destined to ask himself the question again, for the sounds, punctuated by the briefest of pauses, doubtless consecrated to the delivery of laconic replies from Lucilla, continued far into the small hours of the morning.
Finally, after Quentillian had fallen asleep, he was roused by a gentle, reiterated knocking at the door.
Only too well aware whose hand was responsible for those considerately modified taps, he rose and went to open the door, omitting the usual invitation to enter.
As he expected, the Canon, unutterably pale and weary-looking, stood without.