The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. 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 has been a dear. E. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. It was clear it must be to-morrow.
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