‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. Recovering himself quickly his instinct of self-defence was quicker than his recollection of Anna’s presence. ‘You were right, miss. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Do you live here?" "Not exactly," answered the carpenter. She repeated this breathlessly. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte.
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