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. ‘And I am delighted to see that you are ready to admit that the Charvills—or rather the Valades—are indeed your affair. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. I will do my utmost.
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