She was a furtive shadow in the midst of the city night, a lady where no lady should be. She was alone-no footman or maid pattered after her, holding slipper box or lantern. She was dressed for the opera or the theatre or a Mayfair ballroom, and yet she hastened here, to the dark of the incomplete bridge.

She interested me, this lady, pricking the curiosity beneath my melancholia. She might, of course, be a high flyer, an upper-class woman of dubious reputation, but I did not think so. High flyers were even more prone than ladies of quality to shutting themselves away in gaudy carriages and taking great care of their clothes and slippers. Also, this woman did not carry herself like a lady of doubtful morals, but like a lady who knew she was out of place and strove to be every inch a lady even so.

I turned, my curiosity and alarm aroused, and followed her.

Darkness quickly closed on us, the soft rain our only companion. She walked out onto an unfinished arch of the bridge, slippers whispering on boards laid over stones.

I quickened my steps. The boards moved beneath my feet, the hollow sound carrying to her. She looked back, her face pale in the darkness. Her cloak swirled back to reveal a dove gray gown, and her slender legs in white stockings flashed against the night.

She reached the crest of the arch. The rain thickened, a gust of wind blowing it like mist across the bridge. When it cleared, a shadow detached itself from the dark arms of scaffolding and moved toward her. The woman started, but did not flee.

The person-man or woman, I could not tell which-bent to her, speaking rapidly. The lady appeared to listen, then she stepped back. "No," she said clearly. "I cannot."

The shadow leaned forward, hands moving in persuasive gestures. She backed away, shaking her head.

Suddenly, she cried out, turned, started to run. The assailant lunged at her, and I heard the ring of a knife.