She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. Twenty guineas, mind. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat.
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