“Well, you are a mug to chuck it over and then want it back.  I guess it’s lost now, anyway, unless the river police find it—­and that ain’t likely, is it?”

“I should think not,” he answered gravely.  “Good evening.”  He would have moved away, but she stopped him.  “Come, that’s not good enough,” she said, in a harder tone.  “You ain’t going to bluff me.  What was in that parcel, eh?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I don’t quite see how it concerns you, anyway,” he said, “but I don’t know that I mind telling you that it contained a suit of clothes.”

“Your own?”

“Yes.”

“What have you been up to?”

“I am afraid I don’t understand you,” he said.

“Oh, rot!  People don’t sneak their clothes over into the river for nothing.  What are you going to stand me not to tell that bobby, eh?”

“I really don’t care whether you do or not,” he answered.  “I had a reason for wanting to get rid of my clothes, but I am afraid you wouldn’t understand it.”

“Well, we’ll try the bobby, then,” she said.  “There’s a horrible murder this morning on the placards.  How do I know that you’re not the chap?  It looks suspicious when you come out in a new suit of clothes and throw the old ones into the river.  Anyway, the bobby would want to ask you a few questions about it.”

“Well, you can try him, then,” Douglas answered.  “I’ll wait here while you fetch him.”

The girl laughed—­it was not a pleasant sound.

“Where’d you be by the time I’d brought him, I’d like to know?” she remarked.  “Never mind.  I see you ain’t likely to part with a lot.  Stand us a drink, and I won’t tell a soul.”

“I would rather not, thanks,” Douglas said.  “I’ll give you the money for one.”

She looked at him angrily.

“Too much of a toff, eh?  No, you can keep your money.  You’ll come along and have one with me, or I’ll tell the bobby.”

Douglas hesitated.  He thought for a moment of De Quincey’s Ann wandering out of the mists to cross the bridge with weary footsteps, and turned towards the girl with a courtesy which was almost tenderness.

“I will come with you if you like,” he said, “only—­”

The girl laughed hardly.

“All right.  We’ll go to the ‘Cross.’  The port wine’s A1 there.  You a Londoner?” she added, as they turned towards the Strand.

He shook his head.

“I have never been in London before to-day,” he answered.

“More fool you to come, then,” she said, shortly.  “You don’t look like a Cockney.  I guess you’re a gentleman, aren’t you—­run away from home or something?”

“I have come to live in London,” he said, evasively.  “I have always wanted to.”

She shook her head.

“You’d better have stopped away.  You are young, and you look good.  You’ll be neither long.  Ugh!  Here we are.”