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Eight per cent. You knew me in Paris. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Did I not say so, Hilary?’ Melusine’s glance shot across to the newcomer, and found a petite blonde standing there, very fashionably attired in a velvet mantel over an apple-green robe, the furred hood framing a face alive with mischief. "The key," replied the widow. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. A riding-habit is all I have seen. Mother and Son XI.

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