A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. ‘Keep still, for God’s sake! Hilary will send him off all right and tight, never fear. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips.
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