Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. But probably not the truth. "Davies," said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to his attendant. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself.
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