’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. 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. Alban's to-night. Wood, in a taunting tone.
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