“I wrote it for you. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Sir Rowland is one of us," he added, winking at his companions, "and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil Trafford. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. And I need not tell you that her hotel bill is running on the same as yours. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. Every afternoon, from now on, I will teach you a little about life—I mean the worldly points of view you're likely to meet.
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