The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. But we must not anticipate the course of events. ‘Jacques?’ she called. Go on and tell me. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate.
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