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. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. "Then it is not too late to save him.
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