The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. ‘What Frenchman would that be, missie? We ain’t let no one escape. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. “You should quit. “Don’t let them know I’m here. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. She listened, listened intently for several minutes.
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