"Come along, Blueskin. Paris, 18. ” He seemed to be elaborating ideas as he talked. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. 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. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. . ’ It seems that I was mistaken. The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river. He offered me at once an engagement.
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