"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. Melusine glanced towards the elderly dame and found that sharp gaze directed upon her. He leaned forward to better drink her in. “Lucy, I have to talk to you.
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