For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. How long has Miss Charvill been in England?’ ‘Not long, sir. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured.
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