Perhaps she had just dreamed things (but even dreams could be real...).

     She tried to ignore  the long  thread of wax that suggested  the candle had, just for a few seconds, streamed in the wind.

     As Susan sought sleep,  Lord Downey sat in his study catching up on the paperwork.

     Lord Downey  was an assassin. Or,  rather,  an  Assassin.  The  capital letter was important.  It separated those  curs  who  went around  murdering people for money from the gentlemen who were occasionally consulted by other gentlemen who wished to have removed,  for a consideration, any inconvenient razorblades from the candyfloss of life.

     The  members of the Guild  of Assassins considered  themselves cultured men who enjoyed good music and  food and literature. And they knew the value of human life. To a penny, in many cases.

     Lord Downey's  study was  oak-panelled and well carpeted. The furniture was very old and quite worn,  but the wear was the wear that comes only when very good furniture is carefully used over several centuries. It was matured furniture.

     A  log fire burned in the grate. In front of it  a couple  of dogs were sleeping in the tangled way of large hairy dogs everywhere.

     Apart from the occasional doggy snore or the crackle of a shifting log, there were no other sounds but the scratching of Lord Downey's  pen and  the ticking of  the longcase clock by  the door ...  small, private noises which only served to define the silence.

     At least, this was the case until someone cleared their throat.

     The sound suggested  very clearly  that the purpose of the exercise was not  to erase the  presence of a  troublesome bit of biscuit, but  merely to indicate in the politest possible way the presence of the throat.

     Downey stopped writing but did not raise his head.