” “And you?” Annabel exclaimed. 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. There was no one to be seen. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious. That can be very useful, that. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. Then the inner door opened abruptly. The Pursuit 425 XXV. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. Well, it had to happen somewhen.
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