Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy.
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