’ Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. We shall have him on his return. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out.
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