The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Many a black veil hid a high-born dame, and the religious habit was no protection. It was a betrayal of God and her former family, but all in all was much easier. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. He must know she’ll be at a convent. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. I’m rather scornful. I’ve been on the watch for you. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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