I don't think. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. I've seen him often do it. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her.
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