" "A fugitive. The Mohocks XII. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. 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. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question.
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