There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. 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 received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. She knew the truth of it all right.
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