The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that minute than at any time of “Alcide” as he had first known her. Wood, sharply. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project.
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