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In many ways James Lamotte Featherstone was an improvement on all the others she had known. His life was as purposeless, but he possessed the great advantage of modesty. He never spoke about himself; he could talk about other things most entertainingly.

Valerie had first tolerated him because he was more presentable than the detective her father had threatened to hire to accompany her if she persisted in her practice of taking solitary rambles in neighbourhoods of an unsavoury character. And from tolerating him she had begun to like him, despite his exquisite appearance.

On the day following the murder he called to take her to the park.

"I'm going to ask you something," she said when they had reached the sunny park and he had found her a chair by the side of the Row, "and it is very personal."

"Personalities fascinate me," he said unsmiling.

"What do you do besides run around escorting attractive young ladies?"

He looked at her hard.

"You are attractive," he said seriously. "You always remind me of Beatrice D'Este—the girl Leonardo painted—only your face is more delicate and your eyes ever so much prettier——"