He could not make good his hold. “The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, and that you have lived in Paris. (“No, no. You’re a lady. 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. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste.
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