In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good. He was clearing up these difficulties by tracing a partially obliterated suture the Scotchman had overlooked when the door from the passage opened, and Manning came into his universe. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees.
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