Sanguine they were not. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. ’ She grasped the girl’s arm. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden.
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