The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. Hill lost a little of his truculency. 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. Jonathan nodded assent. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. "Your sympathy is being wasted.
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