He hailed a passing taxi, helped her in and gave at random the first place that suggested itself to him, which was Finsbury Park.
“I am very worried,” she said, “and I don't know anybody who can help me except you.”
“Is it money?” he asked.
“Money,” she said scornfully, “of course it isn't money. I want to show you a letter,” she said after a while.
She took it from her bag and gave it to him and he struck a match and read it with difficulty.
It was written in a studiously uneducated hand.
“Dear Miss,
“I know who you are. You are wanted by the police but I
will not give you away. Dear Miss. I am very hard up and
20 pounds will be very useful to me and I shall not trouble
you again. Dear Miss. Put the money on the window sill of
your room. I know you sleep on the ground floor and I will
come in and take it. And if not—well, I don't want to make
any trouble.
“Yours truly,
“A FRIEND.”
“When did you get this?” he asked.
“This morning,” she replied. “I sent the Agony to the paper by telegram, I knew you would come.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” he said.