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. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. And, without another word, he seized the table with both hands, and upset it; scattering plates, dishes, bottles, jugs, and glasses far and wide.
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