I said something polite, as though I had merely opened a door for her at a soiree.

I led her off the bridge and out of the darkness, back to the solid reality of the Strand. I kept a sharp eye out for her assailant, but I saw no one. He had fled.

Our adventure had not gone without attention. By the time we reached the Strand, a small crowd had gathered to peer curiously at us. A group of ladies in tawdry finery looked the woman over.

"Why'd she go out there, then?" one remarked to the crowd in general.

"Tried to throw herself over," another answered.

"Belly-full, I'd wager."

The second nodded. "Most like."

The woman appeared not to hear them, but she moved closer to me, her hand tightening on my sleeve.

A spindly man in faded black fell in beside us as we moved on. He grinned, showing crooked teeth and bathing me with coffee-scented breath. "Excellent work, Captain. How brave you are."

I knew him. The man's name was Billings, and he was a journalist, one of those damned insolent breed who dressed badly and followed the rich and prominent, hoping for a breath of scandal. Billings hung about the theatres at Drury Lane and Covent Garden, waiting for members of the haut ton to do something indiscreet.

I toyed with the idea of beating him off, but knew that such an action would only replay itself in the paragraphs of whatever scurrilous story he chose to write.

The curious thing was, the lady seemed to recognize him. She pressed her face into my sleeve, not in a gesture of fear, but betraying a wish to hide.

His grin grew broader. He saluted me and sauntered off, no doubt to pen an entirely false version of events for the Morning Herald.

I led the lady along the Strand toward Southampton Street. She was still shaking and shocked and needed to get indoors.

"I want to take you home," I said. "You must tell me where that is."