But Wolf, having twice twisted his head back into its normal position from a hopeless attempt to see further than a few yards in front of him, felt an irresistible impulse to reveal to this woman certain rather sinister deductions that he found he had been involuntarily making from recent glimpses and hints. Composed originally of the veriest wisps and wefts of fluctuating suspicion, they seemed now to have solidified themselves in unabashed tangibility. What they now amounted to was that Mattie was not Mr. Smith’s daughter at all but William Solent’s; and that Olwen, the girl’s little protégée, was actually the incestuous child of old Malakite, the bookseller, and of some vanished sister of Christie’s. It was the startling nature of these conclusions that tempted him to fire them off point-blank at the lady by his side, whose morbid receptivity made her a dedicated target for such a shock.

“Is it true that I have a sister in this town?” he enquired boldly, looking straight into Miss Gault’s eyes.