Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Lucy
did
not
see
the
point
of
the
story
or
what
connection
it
had
with
anything
said
before.
Some
people
were
smiling,
however;
and
then
the
man
in
the
corner,
a
very
ordinary
man
with
a
fat
pale
face,
the
jacket
of
his
suit
too
tight
for
him,
not
anyone
you
would
notice,
cried
out,
'He
should
have
put
the
sword
to
his
throat!'
He
came
forward
to
where
the
Great
Sovek
was
lolling
back
in
his
seat,
and
gestured
to
him,
'You
do
it
–
the
scabbard,
yes,
see,
like
that,'
and
the
hypnotist
held
up
his
hand
as
instructed.
'I'm
trying
to
put
the
sword
in – and
you're –
that's
right,
moving
it,'
and
he
held
out
his
empty
fist
at
arm's
length
trying
to
match
the
wavering
of
the
hypnotist's
hand.
'But
now!'
and
with
the
word,
he
moved
his
arm
up
until
it
pointed
not
at
the
hypnotist's
throat
but
at
his
face
and
Lucy
saw
the
sword
there,
the
light
running
along
its
length,
so
that
eased
forward
only
a
fraction
it
would
plunge
into
the
soft
eye.
'Not
a
muscle,
right?
Don't
risk
it.
Keep
still.’
And
slowly
he
lowered
his
fist
and
edged
it
forward
straight-armed
until
the
edge
of
it
knocked
at
last
with
a
small
sucking
sound
against
the
palm
of
the
Great
Sovek's
outstretched
hand.
'In
up
to
the
hilt,'
he
said.
'Guilty.’
Lucy
who
had
visited
the
hospital
a
long
time
ago
when
her
father
was
alive
and
walked
with
him
through
the
wards
–
'Don't
be
afraid,
child,'
he
whispered,
the
smell
and
warmth
of
his
cheek
beside
her
own
–
guessed
at
once;
but
most
of
the
people
probably
didn't
realise
what
was
wrong
until
the
pale
girl
with
the
glasses
–
covering
half
her
face,
like
goggles,
making
her
look
stupid,
anything
to
be
in
fashion
–
took
him
by
the
arm
and
led
him
from
the
room.
Even
then
some
of
them
didn't
understand,
and
it
was
against
the
bright
fluttering
of
explanations,
relief,
someone
was
laughing,
'Who
was
hypnotised
that
time?'
at
the
Great
Sovek
who
scowled,
that
she
said
to
Maitland,
'He should
have
been
kept
with
the
others.
He
should
never
have
been
here.
Or
the
girl
either.’
He
looked
at
her
for
a
speculative
moment,
and
then turned
away.
She
touched
him
on
the
arm.
'You
should
speak
to
the
doctor.’
'She
is
the
doctor,'
he
said,
and
began
to
speak
to someone
else.
Instead
of
going
back
to
their
seats,
they
went
to
the
bar
to
spend
the
interval
and
she
was
more
or
less
part
of
a
group
that
seemed
to
be
talking
about
Christmas
and
the
undulant
young
man
said,
'But
who
carried
the
flesh
and
wine – not
to
mention
the
bloody
pine
logs?
Oh,
yes,
he
was
good,
Wenceslas's
page
might
have
admitted,
but
only
good
as
kings
go'
and
the
laughter
spiralled
up
and
drifted
back
with
the
thin
smoke –
people
didn't
smoke
so
much,
not
any
more,
not
in
public,
she'd
noticed
that –
and
she
held
her
headache
at
a
distance
like
something
ugly
that
might
be
a
mistake
and
not
there
at
all
if
only
you
could
avoid
looking
full
at
it,
keeping
it
in
the
corner
of
your
eye.
'Are
you
all
right?'
Monty
Norman
asked,
and
she
went
right
away
across
the
room
without
answering
him
which
must
have
seemed
rude.
When
she
dared
to
look
back,
he
was
talking
with
a
sharp-faced
older
woman,
who
stared
up
at
him
putting
strays
of
hair
back
from
her
forehead.
She
wasn't
sure
and
then
she
was –
It's Viv Law,
for
she
had
met
the
journalist,
though
just
once
or
twice
and
not
recently,
and
anyway,
she
was
exactly
as
Sophie
Lindgren
had
described
her.
That
liar.
All
the
time
with
one
part
of
her
she
had
wanted
to
confront
the
girl.
Now
she
had
to
fight
the
urge
to
pull
her
away
from
where
she
stood
in
the
circle
around
Maitland
and
drag
her
over
beside
Viv
Law
and
Monty
Norman.
Look!
she
would
say
to
her,
no trembling hands, no hate, just two people talking together, normal people, not sick things out of a nightmare.