"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. All other things were without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young man would have to depend upon her for his life. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. “A woman wants a proper alliance with a man, a man who is better stuff than herself. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon.
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