Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Dieu du ciel, but where was Gerald? On the move again, she found herself standing before one of the mirrors, gazing into her own countenance without seeing it. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. I never have known you.
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