Sebastian returned to find her blood dripping into the crucible. Drummond nodded. He classified her as he seated himself. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. ‘Why not a French flag?’ ‘Because I don’t believe that fool Pottiswick could tell French from Arabic, even if he heard it as he says he did—which I take leave to doubt. “But your sister,” he said. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again.
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