Johnny, biting his small mustache, adjured her not to be nervous. “It’s only a matter of form,” he said. “Only a matter of form. But think before you speak, my dear. Think before …” They were at the head of the stairs, and he waited for her to precede him down that narrow stairway. Past the place where she’d stood for a terrified moment during the night. Down into the wide, familiar hall that was all at once different, for there were people there, crowds of people—and sudden, blinding flashes of light. She shut her eyes involuntarily and put her hands upward to shield her face and knew that Dennis had come from somewhere and was standing just below her on the stairs. “No pictures,” he was saying pleasantly and very firmly. “Not just now—please.” Gertrude’s voice, strident and protesting, came from somewhere, too; then Johnny was leading her across the hall and into the little passage leading to the library. Reporters. Reporters, police, inquiry—and they were plunged in the middle of the confusing, terrifying maelstrom.
