As Melusine approached the door, she saw Kimble speed up. I never could. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. People hounded him about the disappearances mercilessly for weeks after the concert, first the police, then the Becks, then people from school. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night.
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