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. “How’s Mrs. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Walking to the station with him. White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped.
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