"It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. I worshipped her and subdued myself. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. 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. The burden of decision had been transferred.
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