At the door to the cab, I turn. I take Mr Hawtrey''s hand.
''You will come,'' I say, ''tomorrow?''
''Of course.''
''You won''t talk of this, to anyone? You''ll remember the danger I spoke of?''
He nods. ''Go on,'' he says quietly. ''This woman will care for you now, better than I.'' ?
''Thank you, Mr Hawtrey!''
He hands me into the cab—hesitates, before lifting my fingers to his mouth. The woman comes next. He closes the door at her back, then moves off, out of the path of the turning wheel. I lean to the glass and see him take out his handkerchief, wipe his face and neck; then we turn, pull out of the alley, and he is gone. We drive away from Holywell Street—northwards, so far as I can tell; for I know— I am almost certain—that we do not cross the river.
We go very fitfully, however. The traffic is thick. I keep with my face at the window at first, watching the crowds upon the streets, the shops. Then I think, Suppose I see Richard?—and I fall back against the leather seat and study the streets from there.
Only after some time of this do I look again at the woman. She has her hands in her lap: they are gloveless, and coarse. She catches my eye.
''All right, dearie?'' she says, not smiling. Her voice is rough as her fingers.
Do I begin, then, to feel wary? I am not sure. I think, After all, Mr Hawtrey had not the time to be careful, in his finding of a woman. What matter if she''s not kind, so long as she''s honest? I look more closely at her. Her skirt is a rusty black. Her shoes are the colour and texture of roasted meat. She sits placidly, not speaking, while the cab shudders and jolts.