The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. Then the lady smiled and her radiance, even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. This isn’t the place. I'll go with you. At the Palazzo, the cook’s cook had a team of servants under him. Very gently indeed, Alderley grasped the handle of the door and stealthily turned it.
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