It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ’ ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary. Jackson: "ha! ha!" "Not in the least, Ma'am," echoed Mr. Bitte!. The others hurried to the window. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles.
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