Brendon was silent. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ‘But you know everything now,’ protested Hilary, keeping pace as Gerald took the stairs two at a time. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald grinned. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller.
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