This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. ‘I can see why you lost your place, young Kimble. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens. . ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “Oh I most definitely think so. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was.
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