He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. I don’t know. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. One would think I had agreed to her going.
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