It was eleven o'clock. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. They don’t count, and I don’t care. The visitors, when they entered, looked thoroughly intimidated and Everett concealed a grim smile. Pity he's ta'en to bad ways so airly. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. It doesn’t seem to matter. Take me to the Stone Room.
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