11Going through the hall, Lucius Bellingdon picked up a letter or two lying ready for the post. The one on the top attracted his attention. It was addressed to Miss Sally Foster, 13 Porlock Square. He stuck there, frowning at the number and the name of the square. In the end he called Moira and waited for her to come to him. She arrived without hurry, stared, and said,
‘What are you doing with my letter?’
‘I was going to post it—I’m going down into the village. Who is Sally Foster?’
Those curious light eyes of hers dwelt upon him without affection. She said,
‘Why?’
He had been used to her for so many years that he was conscious of no fresh chill. There was no warmth in her, no kindness. You couldn’t get blood from a stone. What he meant to get was an answer. He said,
‘I know the addr
