Paradise was a garden, but not for Nicholas.  As he hid in the conservatory, he could hear, closed doors and rooms away, the butler showing the constabulary into the library, where Feliks met them at his most formal.
They had hunted him from his flat, from his club, from the theatre—and for what?  With what twisted plot had his master brought ruin to his unlife this time?  (He had no doubt it was LaCroix.)
Feliks would deal with the law.  LaCroix would pluck Annabel as he had so many sweet flowers.  And, once more empty-hearted, Nick would move on.