She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. Once upon a time she and Roddy had descended thence by the drain-pipe. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell.
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