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"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. "Then I presume you've not been arrested?" "I have not," answered Wood firmly. The Jew got in first. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. "I'll have to set you right on that, too. Go and live somewhere else. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. 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. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck.
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