Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’ ‘That is easy. I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. .
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