She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. The coachman answered by a surly grunt, and, plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his course down Dyot Street; traversed that part of Holborn, which is now called Broad Street, and where two ancient alms-houses were, then, standing in the middle of that great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the opening of Compston Street; and, diving under a wide gateway on the left, soon reached a more open space, surrounded by mean habitations, coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick Yard, at the further end of which Saint Giles's round-house was situated. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. With an open hand, he slapped her face. ‘You will arrest me? For—for—’ ‘Trespass, theft and spying,’ snapped Hilary. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed.
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