At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her.
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