By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. I have something that weighs heavily upon my mind. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. ‘You know what I am about,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd ascertain whether it fitted your locks. He drew an awed breath. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks.
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