"Tracing? What is tracing?" As Napier did not answer, she went on, "I have never seen such a thing."
"No, you wouldn't see it, not till you had heated the paper."
"You mean,"—she gasped—"something in what they call invisible ink? Who has put that among my papers?" The pink in her face had not so much faded as deepened to a sickly bluish magenta, like the discoloration of certain roses before the petals fall. Napier looked away. She stood there, pouring her cautious, low-voiced scorn on some secret enemy. It wasn't the first time in history this kind of villainy had been practised on an innocent person, a person whom somebody—who was it?—(she clutched his arm)—whom somebody wanted to get into trouble, to get out of the way. The congested face looked swollen and patchy. Minute bubbles of saliva frothed at one corner of the mouth. Suddenly she faced about and made a rush for the stairs. But Napier, at her flying heels, caught her half-way up. He seized her by the shoulder, and he did it roughly, anticipating a struggle.
Instantly she was still. She dropped her cheek against his ungentle fingers. "Oh, Gavan, save me!"
"O Gavan, save me!"
"It's too late." He drew his hand away. She turned to the friendlier banister and clung there. "They have taken everything," he said very low.