If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. But it was clear she was in no mood for Teddys. 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. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. She turned there and beckoned. “Solitary walks?” “That’s the point of them.
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