The streets were full of colour. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. Annabel was in hiding all the time. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine.
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