"Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. I can’t help it. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. As soon as the service was over, Thames contrived to approach him, and whispered, "Be cautious,—the funeral will take place after evening service. 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.
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