The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. "Before you go, bring me the bottle of pineapple rum I opened yesterday. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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