He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. ’ ‘Then leave me to guard myself, and do not ask me questions any more,’ she snapped, and crouched down suddenly, searching about for her dagger. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. It was after all a momentary affair. “There’s no one here except me. But days had now passed. Easy enough.
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