“Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. Surely our advice would have been worth having, at any rate. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently.
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