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‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. ’ Melusine was beginning to fill with dread and a burgeoning of anger as the meaning behind his words began to penetrate. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out.
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