“We’re on holiday, aren’t we? And doesn’t Mama want to join us?”

“She decided to rest. Now come on. Get a move on, for God’s sake. We need to be back in good time to change if we’re to dine at Maxim’s.”

I heard the voices come closer, then pass right behind me. I kept the handkerchief pressed to my face and hoped that my hat was concealing most of that tell-tale red hair. I waited like that for a good minute after they must have gone, trying to control my panic. I was safe in France, surely. Justin Hartley could do nothing to me here. And I was now married to an American. But I couldn’t shake off the fear that somehow the English authorities might catch up with me and drag me back to Ireland to stand trial. I had been an unwilling participant in that failed jail break in Dublin, but a participant nonetheless. And the English didn’t care too much about details when they convicted would-be republicans.

I removed my handkerchief to see the young man still looking down at me with concern. “Are you feeling better, madame? It would be no trouble to fetch you a glass of water.”

“No, thank you.” I stood up, now horribly conscious that Mrs. Hartley, Justin’s mother who had taken such an interest me, was also now in the hotel. I had to get away from here as quickly as possible. “I must be on my way. Turn down to the river at the Place de la Concorde, you say?”

“That’s right, madame. The Quai de Billy. Close to the Trocadéro gardens. You can’t miss it.”