3. ” “Oh, I might,” he answered, “have gone further still. It’s all nonsense. There's a man dying—Captain Darrell. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. Her eyes were wide and bright. 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. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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