" "Loves!" echoed Winifred, slightly colouring. Obey my orders, and you've nothing to fear. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. But, moving through into the first of the large main rooms that led one into another around the house, with here and there an antechamber between, it was obvious that the task was not going to be easy. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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