She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. "It's a mysterious transaction altogether. “It is just a look. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. ‘What now?’ ‘Now,’ she answered flatly, ‘you will please to tell me at once why you have come here.
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