She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. I was sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing an odd noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark lantern, saw Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men with crape on their faces. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace.
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