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” “Kate who?” Lucy asked. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. Then he sensed the trap. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. Gather he found stuff belonging to the real Valade, and the vicomte, as well as your own letter. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. His revelry, however, was put an end at the expiration of the time mentioned by Jonathan, by the entrance of a posse of constables with Quilt Arnold and Abraham Mendez at their head. CHAPTER III.
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