‘I had no need of the place, and there was no money, of course. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. He drew a little breath of relief. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. The bus however was full. Ann Veronica blushed. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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