He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. “I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated.
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