‘Don’t tell me you’ve found her!’ ‘Ah, Gérard,’ uttered the girl in a gratified tone as Major Alderley walked through into the light. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. 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. He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. “The fellow seems to know your name, Miss Pellissier, and that you have lived in Paris. Always as black and bitter as gall.
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