particularly “fine” about him that I could see; but there might be other gentlemen, still less “fine,” who had yet to be interviewed. When the hansom had driven off, as we walked along the pavement, I felt more and more uncomfortable, though I would not have hinted at anything of the kind to Pollie for worlds.
“Have we passed Camford Street?” she wondered. “I don’t know which side of it is Rosemary Street.”
“I’m sure I don’t. You had better ask.”
We were standing at the corner of a narrow street, a pretty dark and deserted one it seemed. Pollie turned to make enquiries of some passer-by. A man came towards us.
“Can you tell me which is Rosemary Street?” she said.
“This way! this way!”
He took her by the arm and led her into a gloomy-looking street, as if he were showing her the way. She must have been purblind, or completely off her guard, to have been tricked by him so easily, because directly he spoke I recognised him as the person in the long black coat who had fled from Mr. Lander. I myself was taken by surprise, or I would have called out and warned her. But I suppose that I was bewildered by his sudden and wholly unexpected appearance, because, instead of bidding her look out, I went after her into the narrow lane, for really it seemed to be no more.
The moment we were round the corner two other figures appeared out of the darkness as if by magic. But by now Pollie had taken the alarm.
“Let me go!” she cried to her conductor. “Take your hand away from my arm!”
He showed no inclination to do anything of the kind.
“This way! this way!” he kept repeating, as if he were a parrot. He spoke with a strong foreign accent—as if his stock of English was not a large one.
