“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. She lost it in the Mint. Loneliness. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. ‘You will arrest me? For—for—’ ‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary.
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