“Nothing was ever done,” Miss Brett asserted, “without a certain element of Faith. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. Kneebone, he took his departure. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. Moments are ages now.
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