The evening rush had already begun when Poole reached the Monument. The shoals of small fry would not be released till six o’clock, but at 5.20 p. m. when the detective emerged from the “east-bound” platform, a steady stream of superior clerks, secretaries and managers, was pouring into the “west-bound” as quickly as was consonant with their dignity. To Poole’s surprise, Inez Fratten was already waiting for him. Dressed in a dark mackintosh—there had been intermittent drizzle all day—and a small black hat, the detective did not at first recognize her as she stood, meekly waiting, in a corner just out of the rush of passengers. Her smile of welcome sent a thrill of pleasure through him and seemed to brighten up the drab surroundings of the east-end station. “You’re very punctual, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” “You’re before time,” replied Inez. “I came early because I suddenly got a qualm that she might get off at five. She hasn’t been this way, anyhow.” Together they made their way upstream towards Fenchurch Street. A squad of newsboys hurrying out with the last editions alone seemed to be going in the same direction as themselves—everyone else was making for home and supper. Poole thought gloomily of the amount of work he had in front of him before his own supper was likely to be eaten; a further sigh escaped him as he thought of the loneliness of the “home” that awaited him at the end of the day; he did not often think of that aspect of his work—its endlessness, its loneliness; perhaps the presence of the girl at his side had started a train of thought that had better be promptly quenched. A glance at Inez showed him that she had no such thoughts; her eyes were alive with interest as she scanned each approaching female face; so far as she was concerned, the hunt was up and the thrill of it had thrust into the background the sadness of her loss and the anxiety of her “brother’s” position.