“It was the night you left Paris. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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