Ann Veronica had one of her flashes of insight. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. “Of course you don’t. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. Just as he was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men, which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles.
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