’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. 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. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. ’ ‘Dunderhead.
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