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pale hazel eyes narrowing, as he stared stupidly at me and intoned in perfect Sloane Square English, “Why, it is Miss Huxleigh, indeed.”
    Then he collapsed to the cobblestones like a sack of potatoes. Irene regarded me inquiringly, even accusingly.
    “I do not know the man!” Staring down at the unconscious fellow, I could only repeat the obvious. “I cannot speculate how he knew my name, but I most certainly do not know—have never known, never seen—”
    “He saw you,” she interrupted. “He saw you and could not believe that he knew you.”
    “The f-feeling is mutual,” I stuttered, aware of onlookers gathering around us. “I tell you I have never seen this man before, nor do I hope to again.”
    Godfrey had bent to examine the creature at the same moment that a waiter from the café rushed over with a glass of red wine. The French belief in the curative value of wine rivals only their conviction in their own cultural superiority. More of that gruesome liquid fell upon the man’s barbarously embroidered shirt than on his lips, but he stirred at this bloody baptism, his eyelids fluttering.
    “Miss Huxleigh,” he murmured as if dreaming.
    I stepped back, appalled, my hands clasped at my throat, which was dry. “I have never met the fellow, I swear.”
    Irene regarded the fallen man from the lofty pinnacle of consideration for a moment; though she was the softest-hearted of women when moved, she was not one to be deceived by false weakness. Then she addressed me dryly.
    “Although you pride yourself on strictly abiding by the Holy Writ, Nell, it is not necessary to follow the New Testament example and deny any association yet a third time. Whatever your memory of a connection, this, er, gentleman clearly knows you and your name. Since he has been taken ill—”
    “A ruse!” I interrupted, my cheeks hot with anger at the attention the bounder had drawn in my innocent direction.
    “A ruse by another name may be a true illness.” Irene waited for Godfrey to report on the fellow’s condition.
    “I am no medical man,” he said, glancing up with a sober face, “but it looks like a legitimate illness to me.”
    Irene nodded briskly, her ostrich plumes bowing faintly to the gesture. “We will take him back with us to Neuilly, then. Our carriage will accommodate him if you ride up with André,” she told Godfrey.
    She gave me a wicked smile. “Or perhaps Nell would prefer to ride with the coachman rather than with our mysterious charge.”
    My throat felt stuffed with cotton, but I managed to speak. “If you wish to play Good Samaritan to this stranger, far be it from me to interfere. However, I would never agree to anything so improper as riding with the coachman.”
    “Good,” Irene returned. “I knew I could rely upon you, Nell, to do the proper thing. Godfrey, you must tend the poor man while Nell and I fetch the carriage. Guard him well.”
    With that cryptic instruction, Irene took my elbow and steered me into the crowd milling before the great stone cathedral.

     
    “Paris is unlucky for us,” I commented morosely when Godfrey came down the narrow stairs of our cottage at Neuilly after helping the coachman install our mysterious invalid in an upstairs bedchamber.
    Godfrey frowned at the chamomile tea our maid, Sophie, had prepared for me, and went to the sherry decanter instead. He returned with a half-full glass and presented it with a bow. “For thy stomach’s sake. It has had a turn.”
    I seldom partake of alcoholic beverages, but my throat was still dry so I sipped the potion, which struck me as no more unappealing than drinking from the perfume flagon Irene kept on her dressing table. “He may have contracted some virulent Oriental disease,” I muttered.
    “He may have,” Godfrey admitted. “We are taking him on faith, given his acquaintance with you.”
    “You must not! As I told Irene, I do not know—” Footsteps descended the stairs. I paused, loath to subject myself to