And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. Supper was over. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster.
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