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.
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