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Updated: May 7, 2025
His voice, level as ever, rang sharply across the other man's distraction. "When did she die?" he asked him. "Just now." He ran his hand over his hair, gazing at Dick as if Leila and I were not there. "She she killed herself down in the Hotel Meynard." "Why?" Leila's voice, hard with terror, snapped off the word. "She she I don't know."
Down the brightness of Piccadilly into the fuller glow of Regent Street we rode without speech. Somewhere below the Circus we turned aside and went through dim cañons of houses that opened a way past the Museum and let us into Bloomsbury. There in a wilderness of cheap hotels and lodging-houses we found the Meynard. A gas lamp was flaring in the hall when the porter admitted us.
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