In Old Palace Yard everybody ran. Stanley in person. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. Spurling, drily. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The news that his granddaughter desired an audience Lord Charvill had greeted with merely a grunt, which turned into a roar as his gorge rose when he heard that she was accompanied by her husband. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag.
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