She followed the official back into his room. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. 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. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. The rest of his attire was nondescript.
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