She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. The movie droned on, the sounds becoming manageable except for the frequent high-pitched screams of young girls when a poltergeist manifestation would leap out of a shadow. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant.
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