Forth then he issued. The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up from
the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the link boys were
already preparing their tow and looking for a rich harvest of coppers ere
the night was old. Desmond picked his way through the quagmires of John
Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went up Mark Lane into Fenchurch
Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street and Cornhill into Cheapside.

He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow
thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle's tall figure
running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in
hot pursuit. Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his
eyes gleamed as with relief. He quickened his pace.

"Hold this fellow behind me," he panted as he passed, and before Desmond
could put a question he was gone.

There was no time for deliberation. Desmond had but just perceived that
the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of
plaster stretched across his left temple, when the moment for action
arrived. Stooping low, he suddenly caught at the man's knees. Down he
came heavily, mouthing hearty abuse, and man and boy were on the ground
together.

Desmond was up first. He now saw that a second figure was hurrying on
from the other end of the street. He was not sure what Diggle demanded of
him; whether it was sufficient to have tripped up the pursuer, or whether
he must hold him still in play. But by this time the man was also on his
feet; his hat was off, his silk breeches and brown coat with lace ruffles
were all bemired. Puffing and blowing, uttering many a round oath such as
came freely to the lips of the Englishman of King George the Second's