On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. I can keep you. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. We stepped from the Embassy into the motor—and oh! I thought that he was dead. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.
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