He presented a picture of repose. Except for the strange expression on his face—an expression of weariness that was almost sadistic—he might have been an old professor of languages. He looked at them with eyes from which the lustre had departed. His face was immobile.
Ernestine closed the door behind her. She stood with her back to it. She said: "Here she is. The chicken all ready for the plucking. Such a pretty chicken!"
Tanga stood in the middle of the room, her hands hanging by her sides.
Ernestine went on: "May I present Madame la Comtesse de Sarieux? This is M'sieu Rozanski. Perhaps you may have heard of him?"
Tanga said nothing.
The man said to Ernestine in a quiet voice: "It is obvious to me, Karla, that you have been letting your emotions run away with you again." His voice wa
