The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. He had done it. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction.
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