Both McCloskeys disappeared on the same night, without a single trace. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security. 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. She backed away from him. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None.
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