"Do you wish to earn a rich reward, my good friend?" said Thames to the watchman, as soon as they were left alone. A sudden knock at the door startled her. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Look at the poor victim at your feet.
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