imagined, not the story I was looking for. It was to this
effect. Some five or six years ago, a woman named Raymond
suddenly made her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am
referring. She was described to me as being quite young,
probably not more than seventeen or eighteen, very handsome,
and looking as if she came from the country. I should be wrong
in saying that she found her level in going to this particular
quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I was
told, I should think the worst den in London far too good for
her. The person from whom I got my information, as you may
suppose, no great Puritan, shuddered and grew sick in telling
me of the nameless infamies which were laid to her charge.
After living there for a year, or perhaps a little more, she
disappeared as suddenly as she came, and they saw nothing of
her till about the time of the Paul Street case. At first she
came to her old haunts only occasionally, then more frequently,
and finally took up her abode there as before, and remained for
six or eight months. It's of no use my going into details as
to the life that woman led; if you want particulars you can
look at Meyrick's legacy. Those designs were not drawn from
his imagination. She again disappeared, and the people of the
place saw nothing of her till a few months ago. My informant
told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he
pointed out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting
two or three times a week and always at ten in the morning. I
was led to expect that one of these visits would be paid on a
certain day about a week ago, and I accordingly managed to be
on the look-out in company with my cicerone at a quarter to
ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal punctuality. My
friend and I were standing under an archway, a little way back