He must be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my knowledge. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost.
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