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It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,
moreover, it was our last day--for the present. Wherefore we lingered
over our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us with
some disfavour, and when at length we started homeward, we took so many
short cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destination than
Lincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly indirect
route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red Lion
Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row, Jockey's
Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.
It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention was attracted by a
flaming poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startling inscription:
"MORE MEMENTOES OF MURDERED MAN."
Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.
"Horrible! Isn't it?" she said. "Have you read about them?"
"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few, days," I replied.
"No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving at those wretched notes.


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