Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. She was too late.
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