We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. 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. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. Which were perfectly true, as Gerald was aware. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry.
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