Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. And where was that devil? Had the soldiers found him? She could not think he had escaped, for she had only just made it into the passage as they entered the library. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. ” She became aware of her aunt, through the panes of the greenhouse, advancing with an air of serene unconsciousness from among the raspberry canes. I’m a soldier, you see.
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