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creek bed. Beneath the hair was a broad, flat, intelligent face, an impressive face even, a face of such judiciousness that any free-holder would think this man worthy of a vote with or without the election bribe. His eyes stopped his face from being handsome. They were of a blandness so unnatural as to be frightening; dark eyes in flattened sockets. They were the eyes of a quiet, watching man, but they were also eyes of horrid implacability. Valentine Larke did not forget or forgive his enemies. Now, though, he smiled and gestured towards the main room of the shrine. 'Watch!'
    Chemosh turned to the brilliantly lit chamber where he had killed the girl.
    He saw nothing strange, but then, deep in the building, he heard the rattle of a chain, a creaking sound like the windlass of a well, and to his astonishment he saw that the brightness of the gleaming shrine was dimming. A shadow seemed to flow down the walls like blood, like an artificial twilight, a shadow that flicked over the statuary, became darker and then, with an awesome finality, extinguished the last flicker of candlelight within the huge room. In just seconds the brilliance of the shining room had been dimmed to darkness.
    Only the candles on the black stone table stayed lit. The shadow had swallowed the marble chamber.
    Marchenoir laughed at the newcomer's expression. The Mad Duke's little palace of tricks!' He gestured towards the dark dome. 'Just an iron shutter that drops in front of the candles. Dagon turned the handle downstairs. It was built so the mad bugger could shout "let there be light" and a dozen peasants would haul on the chain!' He laughed and shook his head. 'Our job was to worship the crazy bastard. There used to be a tunnel under here so he could suddenly appear in our astonished midst. They bricked that up when the bugger died. But I suppose we were impressed by it all.' He tossed his cigar onto the darkened marble floor, then turned his hard, brooding face to the newcomer. 'I envy you, Chemosh.'
    'Envy me?'
    'I hear that the Lady Campion is a pearl of great price. She is said to be beautiful.' He walked to the black table and lit another cigar. The Gypsy, who was the messenger between Marchenoir and Larke, had told the French politician that the Lady Campion was more beautiful than a dream. Marchenoir blew smoke into the huge, dark chamber. 'Very beautiful indeed.'
    'A pity,' Larke said drily.
    'Pity?' Marchenoir asked.
    'Because the easiest way to stop her marrying,' the Englishman said quietly, 'is to make her unmarriageable. If you scar her face, Chemosh, and scar her body, and scar her mind, who will want her?' He sipped wine. 'Have her raped. Hire a poxed man to rape her and scar her and drive her wits a little mad.' He smiled. 'You see how easy your task will be?'
    Marchenoir laughed. 'Send her to me.'
    'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' Larke smiled. 'A virgin aristocrat at your mercy.'
    Marchenoir laughed. 'I am the killer of aristocrats.' He said it simply, boastfully, then walked to the edge of the dark chamber and stared up at the dome where the iron shutter had dropped over the candles. 'They're different. They have white skins, soft skins, skins like silk. They squeal.' He laughed again, and the sound echoed back in the Mad Duke's chamber. 'I would like her. God, how I would like her.' He turned, and his broad, powerful face stared at the newcomer. 'If it is possible, Chemosh, if in all this wide God-ridden world you find it possible, then bring her to me.' He paused, then the voice that had roused Paris against its King, and France against its civilization, roared in the marble emptiness. 'Scarred or poxed, whole or savaged, Chemosh,' he paused and he shouted his next four words slowly and distinctly, so that the echo of one faded before the next was uttered. 'Bring her to me!'

Chapter 4
    The early winter weeks were hard for Lady Campion Lazender, harder than she dared admit to herself, and made so by the constant visits of the Gypsy