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‘Sir?’ Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. “Call me Annabel. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. We dressed it in a little music.
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