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. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions.
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