’ ‘A French ghost?’ ‘Well, it ain’t a rat this time, Major, I can promise you that,’ Pottiswick had rejoined, his tone affronted. He dropped the key on the counterpane. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. Spurlock went, it would not be far enough. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry.
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