For one thing the doors looked too small and too close together to be the apartments of the rich. For another, the further they progressed, the shabbier and more disreputable the area looked. Finally they reached a spot where foul-smelling debris littered the walkway and charcoal scribbles, many of them embarrassingly obscene, littered the walls. She raised her hand to signal a halt. “I am afraid I have taken a wrong turn,” she admitted apologetically. “We shall have to retrace our steps.” Absolute silence greeted her admission. She waited, expecting a show of frustration, even anger from her two companions. Instead, Tristan Thibault stood motionless, his head raised like a hound taking scent, while Forli studied him with anxious eyes. “There are people ahead of us,” Thibault said. “I cannot tell how many. They are still a long way off, but they are moving swiftly and in our direction.” Madelaine held her breath, listening. “Are you certain? I hear nothing.” “Believe him,”
