He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. “No,” she answered, reluctantly. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. She had heard Alice talking and crying at the same time, a painful noise. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner.
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