encouraged him, but she knew all the same that he was keeping on her
heels. Along Fleet Street he kept close to her and on Ludgate Bridge
where the traffic was blocked by the crowd gazing into the Fleet river
at some urchin's paddling in the muddy stream he spoke to her. She
hadn't the least idea what he said, she was too terrified.

In the darkness of St. Paul's Churchyard she had the good luck to avoid
him and she darted into Paternoster Row, and took shelter in a deep
doorway. Either he had not noticed the way she went or he had given up
the chase, for she saw no more of him.

The doorway in which she had sought refuge was a kind of lobby with an
inner door covered with green baize. From the other side came the sound
of loud talking and laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the
Chapter Coffee House, the meeting place of booksellers, authors who had
made their names, and struggling scribblers hanging on to the skirts of
the muses.

The air was close. Inside the revellers may have found it insufferable.
The door was suddenly opened and fastened back by one of the servants.
The man looked inquiringly at the shrinking figure in the lobby.
Evidently she was not a beggar and he said nothing.

Lavinia glanced inside from no feeling other than that of curiosity. At
the same time she was reluctant to leave the protection of the house
until she was sure her persecutor was not lurking near.

The candles cast a lurid yellowish light; the shadows were deep; only
the faces of those nearest the flame could be clearly distinguished. One
table was surrounded by a boisterous group in the centre of which was a