“Guess who I’m going out with?” Michelle asked her one day at lunch. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. ’ ‘Wouldn’t you?’ ‘In Valade’s place, with so much at stake—and more perhaps than he thought, for if he goes to the lawyers he’s bound to find out about this house—’ Hilary said it for him.
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