They had returned late last night in a vile train to Paris, and had picked up their luggage. Now, however, the call of the blood was upon Lord Peter. Bunter, his confidential man and assistant sleuth, had nobly sacrificed his civilised habits, had let his master go dirty and even unshaven, and had turned his faithful camera from the recording of finger-prints to that of craggy scenery. In such conditions murder seemed not only reasonable, but lovable. He had tramped about the mountains, admiring from a cautious distance the wild beauty of Corsican peasant-women, and studying the vendetta in its natural haunt. For the last three months he had forsworn letters, newspapers, and telegrams. He had abandoned his flat and his friends and fled to the wilds of Corsica. He had felt suddenly weary of breakfasting every morning before his view over the Green Park he had realised that the picking up of first editions at sales afforded insufficient exercise for a man of thirty-three the very crimes of London were over-sophisticated. After his exertions in the unravelling of the Battersea Mystery, he had followed Sir Julian Freke's advice and taken a holiday. LORD PETER WIMSEY stretched himself luxuriously between the sheets provided by the Hotel Meurice.
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