deceptive pace, still so surrounded by the radiant cloud of hair that despite the altered angle of vision he could see nothing of her face.
Lord Edmund now crossed over, and made his way in turn onto the bridge, noting as he did so that the tide was very low. To his perplexity and dismay, he saw that the distance between himself and his quarry had, if anything, increased. Had they been alone, he would have broken into a run, but there were other persons on the bridge, and, indignity aside, the spectacle of a gentleman in hot pursuit of an unaccompanied young lady might lead to worse humiliations. Yet, even hastening as fast as he dared, he could see all too plainly that his cause would soon be lost. He was not half-way over, yet there was her dwindling figure almost at the far side; he absolutely could not reconcile her unhurried rhythm of movement to the speed with which she was now eluding him. And what on earth could prompt her to turn, as her choice of descent began to indicate, in the direction of Lambeth, surely a most unsuitable destination for one such as her?
The auburn cloud vanished from sight, and a bitter desolation, sharper and more painful than any emotion he could recall, overwhelmed him. No; it was not to be borne; he must and would see her face, would speak to her. He looked wildly around for a hansom, but there was none in sight. Heedless of curious glances, he began to run. As he crossed the farther bank of the river, he thought—no, he was certain—he saw her disappearing into Vauxhall Walk. Thus began a chase which drew him further and further into noisome lanes and unfamiliar alleys, lured ever onwards by what was surely a flash of pale muslin, a swirl of bright hair floating like flame upon the unwholesome air, but always deceived until at last, winded, footsore, and defeated, he found himself leaning against a blank wall at the end of a dim, cobbled cul-de-sac. As the pounding in his ears subsided, he became aware of an uncanny stillness around him. There was not the faintest sight or sound of any inhabitant, not even the distant barking of a dog; the ragged crowds through which he had lately forced his way might have been a hundred miles off. The doors and windows along both sides of the alley were barred and shuttered; all but one, on closer inspection: a dingy shopfront above whose recessed doorway hung the triple symbol of the pawnbrokers trade.
Wearily, he pushed himself upright and made his way towards the shopfront, hoping at least to secure a cab, and perhaps find something palatable to quench his thirst. His footsteps rang loudly on the cobbles; the silence was really quite uncanny. Coming up to the shop window, he saw that it was so heavily layered with grime as to be entirely opaque. The door, however, stood slightly ajar. He pushed, expecting the stillness to be broken by the scrape of a lintel or the jangling of a bell, but it swung smoothly and noiselessly open.
He paused, irresolute at the threshold, willing his eyes to penetrate the gloom within. In the light from the open door he could discern the outlines of chairs and tables and other articles of furniture crowded and heaped high, one upon the other, so as to fill both sides of the room, leaving only a narrow central passageway receding into darkness. Scents of ancient timbers and musty fabrics, of decaying paper and chill metal, of dust and rot and mould, floated about him. It was not as he had imagined a pawnbrokers shop should be; there was no counter, no sign of a proprietor; only the heaped and crowded furniture and the artificial passage, scarce wide enough to admit him, into whose Stygian depths he continued vainly to peer. Lord Edmund was, of course, a man accustomed to command; in his natural surroundings it would never have occurred to him that his smallest wish would not be instantly and silently gratified, with scarce need of utterance on his part. But this was not Cheyne Walk, nor Napier Hall, nor even one of those