’ Too late he saw his error. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. ’ He glanced at Roding. “I should like you to come here,” she said. 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. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. I must tell somebody—and you would understand.
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