"What was it?" He was insistent. She had been careless. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. 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.
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