Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. If she kept on, would she make it out of the door? Then what? He could come after her before she could reach the secret passage. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him.
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