Sydney Courtlaw—Mr. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. He was tried at the last Old Bailey sessions; and only escaped the gallows by impeaching his accomplices. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis.
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