“You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. 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. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket.
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