I saw them both. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman.
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