There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. Like the Valades, I imagine.
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