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. Ann Veronica tried to seem absolutely unconcerned. It was clear it must be to-morrow. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. And tell Pottiswick to mend that lock we broke.
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