“I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. He had become an extremely handsome man, his hair having darkened and his shoulders having realized their full size. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried.
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