‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. ’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him.
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