He was perhaps forty-five years of age. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. “I will go,” he said. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar.
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