” The official frowned. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. To-morrow they will know the truth. But this chap is good wine yet. ‘Precisely. And the less “anything” happened the better.
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