It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. ‘Jacques, do not go!’ Jack gazed steadfastly at the floor. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. They clapped wildly afterward. He had, for the most part, been correct.
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