After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. ‘You have come to me in place of Gérard? But how is it you will help me?’ ‘That’s all right and tight.
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