“I’m afraid I don’t know any pawn shops” she said, shrinking even from the pronunciation of the word. She scanned her London. They had always been there ... but she had never noticed or thought of them ... “I don’t remember ever having seen one; but I know you are supposed to recognise them,” here was strange useful knowledge, something picturesque floating in from somewhere ... “by three gold balls hanging outside ... I _have_ seen one” they were talking now, the Polish Doctor was fading away. “Yes ... on a bus” his wide child’s eyes were set impersonally on what she saw, “somewhere down by Ludgate Circus.” “I will at once go there” he said sitting leisurely back with dreaming eyes and his hands thrust into his pockets. “Oh no” she cried, thrusting off the disaster, “it would be _closed_.” “That is bad” he reflected, “Ach, no matter. I will write to him that I come on Monday.” “He would not get your letter until Monday.” “That is true. I did not think of this.” There must be pawn shops quite near; in the Tottenham Court Road. They would still be open. Not to suggest this would be to be responsible if anything happened to the Pole... Thrusting down through the numbed mass of her forgotten thoughts to the quick of her nature came the realisation that she was being tested and found wanting ... another of those moments had come round..... She glanced into the open abyss at her own form staring up from its depths, and through her brain flew, in clear record, decisive moments of the past; her self, clearly visible, clothed as she had been clothed, her poise and bearing as she had flinched and fled. Here she was, unchanged, not caring what happened to the man, so long as her evening was not disturbed ... she was a murderess. This was the hidden truth of her life. Above it her false face turned from thing to thing, happy and forgetful for years, until a moment came again to show her that she could face and let slip the risk of anything to anyone, anywhere, rather than the pain of renouncing personal realisation. Already she was moving away. A second suggestion was in her mind and she was not going to make it. She glanced enviously at the unconscious kindliness lolling in the opposite chair. It was clear to its depths; unburdened by spectres of remembered cruelty...... But there was also something else that was different .... easy circumstances; the certainty, from the beginning, of self-realisation..... “Perhaps someone in the house could tell you.” Oh _stupidity_; blurting out _anything_ to hide behind the sound of voices. “Possibly. But it is a delicate matter. I could not for instance mention this matter to Mrs. Bailey.” “Do you like him? Didn’t you find him amongst those dreadful men looking like monkeys?” “At this Vienna café. Ah indeed it is dreadful there upstairs.” “He is very handsome.”