A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. “Showtime!” Martin cried. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. “No. In a sense it alters nothing. ’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. “Dear John,” she whispered. She had the same sharp nose—which, indeed, only Ann Veronica, of all the family, had escaped. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind.
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