““As much as I know of my ward…” he repeated slowly. “Hum. Well, to start with, sir, I have long suspected she is French born.” The Chevalier’s brilliant eyes widened. “Pourquoi?” “Because—when I found her—” “And when precisely was that, Monsieur, s’il vous plaît?” “In May, 1816.” Devenish’s thoughts turned back, his eyes becoming remote. “I’d been robbed and left afoot in the country, late at night and miles from anywhere. I met this poor little waif. I thought she was a boy at first.” “How old... was she then?” “Who knows? I thought perhaps seven, no older than nine.” “Not if my hopes, they are justified. But—pardon—from where had this waif come? There was no home? Parents?” “She had nothing, God bless her!” Devenish’s jaw hardened. “She’d been beaten and starved and worked half to death for all her young life by a set of the most rascally gypsies you ever saw. The damned rogues were getting ready to sell her to a Flash House!MoreLessRead More Read Less
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