He looked at her, his eyes filled with excited terror and astonishment at her move. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. Michelle briskly made introductions and then joined the fray of conversations. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Wood trembled. In vain Wood protested his innocence. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered.
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