She had noticed a twenty year pattern emerging, and funny how opportunity seemed to strike just when she was getting truly anxious. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. No lights were flashing, and a single squad car was not a cause for alert, as sometimes the Becks allowed squads to use their drive to watch for speeders and other reckless drivers. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. Tum, tum, tirray, tum, tum, tum, te-tum—that thing of Mendelssohn’s! If making one human being absolutely happy is any satisfaction to you—” He held out his hands, and she also stood up.
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