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. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. Enough to let her find out a piece of information most urgent.
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