She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of.
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