’ The couple on the sofa stared at her blankly. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. ” Lucy shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No.
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