But one must disguise oneself. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. It vosh plain he vent dat vay. ’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it.
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