Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. 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. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord.
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