Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris.
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