He stepped aside and let her pass in first through the swing doors.  She led the way into what was called a private bar.  They sat in cushioned chairs, and Douglas gave his order mechanically.  A few feet away, with only a slim partition between them, was the general room full of men.  The tinkle of glasses and hum of conversation grew louder and louder.  It was a cold evening and a busy time.  Douglas sipped his wine in silence.  The girl opposite was humming a tune and beating time with her foot.  She was watching him covertly but not unkindly.

“He’ll be caught right enough.  They even know ’is name.  Serve ’im right, too, for it was an ’orrible murder . . .  Douglas Guest.”

Douglas started suddenly in his chair, a cry upon his lips, his eyes almost starting from his head.  The girl’s gloved hand was pressed against his mouth and the cry was stifled.  Afterwards he remembered all his life the smell of patchouli or some cheap scent which assailed him at her near presence.

“Hush!” she whispered.  “Don’t be a silly fool.”

He sat back in his chair, pale to the lips, trembling in every limb.  The mirrors, the rows of glasses, the cushioned seats seemed flying round, there was a buzzing in his ears.  Again she rose and poured wine down his throat.

“Sit still,” she said, hoarsely.  “You’ll be all right in a moment.”

The whole story, in disconnected patches, came floating in to them.  He heard it, gripping all the while the sides of his chair, struggling with a deadly faintness.  She too listened, watching him carefully all the time lest he should call out.  In their corner they were scarcely to be seen even from the bar, and she had moved her seat a little so as to wholly shield him.  It sounded bad enough.  An old man over sixty, a farmer living in a northern village, had been found in his bedroom dead.  By his side was a rifled cash box.  There had been the best part of a hundred pounds there, all of which was gone.  There were no signs of any one having broken in, but a young man named Douglas Guest, an inmate of the house and a distant relative, was missing.  The thing was clear enough.

Another voice chimed in—­its owner possessed a later edition.  Only that night there had been a violent quarrel between the dead man and this Douglas Guest concerning money.  Guest had been seen to enter the London train secretly at the nearest large station.  His arrest was only a matter of a few hours.  The police knew exactly where to put their hands upon him.  A description followed.  The girl and her companion exchanged stealthy glances.

The buzz of voices continued.  Covering Douglas all she could, the girl called for more wine.  The barmaid, seeing his pale face, nodded across towards him.

“Your friend don’t look well,” she said.

“Had too much yesterday,” the girl answered, promptly.  “He was fairly on ‘the do,’ and he ain’t strong.  He’ll be all right when he gets a drop of this inside him.”