Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. ‘I’ve had enough of this. We always go out to dinner on holidays. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. She was discussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with an extraordinary, confidence. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. . ’ She thrust him into the aperture, and pushed the hilt of the sword into his hand.
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