"Well, we'll try the bobby, then," she said. "There's a horrible murder this morning on the placards. How do I know that you're not the chap? It looks suspicious when you come out in a new suit of clothes and throw the old ones into the river. Anyway, the bobby would want to ask you a few questions about it." "Well, you can try him, then," Douglas answered. "I'll wait here while you fetch him." The girl laughed--it was not a pleasant sound. "Where'd you be by the time I'd brought him, I'd like to know?" she remarked. "Never mind. I see you ain't likely to part with a lot. Stand us a drink, and I won't tell a soul." "I would rather not, thanks," Douglas said. "I'll give you the money for one." She looked at him angrily. "Too much of a toff, eh? No, you can keep your money. You'll come along and have one with me, or I'll tell the bobby." Douglas hesitated. He thought for a moment of De Quincey's Ann wandering out of the mists to cross the bridge with weary footsteps, and turned towards the girl with a courtesy which was almost tenderness. "I will come with you if you like," he said, "only--" The girl laughed hardly. "All right. We'll go to the 'Cross.' The port wine's A1 there. You a Londoner?" she added, as they turned towards the Strand. He shook his head. "I have never been in London before to-day," he answered. "More fool you to come, then," she said, shortly. "You don't look like a Cockney. I guess you're a gentleman, aren't you--run away from home or something?" "I have come to live in London," he said, evasively. "I have always wanted to." She shook her head. "You'd better have stopped away. You are young, and you look good. You'll be neither long. Ugh! Here we are." He stepped aside and let her pass in first through the swing doors. She led the way into what was called a private bar. They sat in cushioned chairs, and Douglas gave his order mechanically. A few feet away, with only a slim partition between them, was the general room full of men. The tinkle of glasses and hum of conversation grew louder and louder. It was a cold evening and a busy time. Douglas sipped his wine in silence. The girl opposite was humming a tune and beating time with her foot. She was watching him covertly but not unkindly. "He'll be caught right enough. They even know 'is name. Serve 'im right, too, for it was an 'orrible murder . . . Douglas Guest." Douglas started suddenly in his chair, a cry upon his lips, his eyes almost starting from his head. The girl's gloved hand was pressed against his mouth and the cry was stifled. Afterwards he remembered all his life the smell of patchouli or some cheap scent which assailed him at her near presence. "Hush!" she whispered. "Don't be a silly fool." He sat back in his chair, pale to the lips, trembling in every limb. The mirrors, the rows of glasses, the cushioned seats seemed flying round, there was a buzzing in his ears. Again she rose and poured wine down his throat.