His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. It was locked. I don't know anything about you. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. "Why, so it is," she said, in mock astonishment.
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