"I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. 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. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. I hear her coming. He had. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are.
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