"Mr. Shears, I believe?"
He stopped, somewhat taken aback. Who on earth could be addressing him by name?
A woman was walking beside him, or rather a girl whose exceedingly simple dress accentuated her well-bred appearance. Her pretty face wore a sad and anxious expression. She repeated:
"You must be Mr. Shears, surely?"
He was silent, as much from confusion as from the habit of prudence, and she asked for the third time:
"Surely I am speaking to Mr. Shears?"
"What do you want with me?" he asked, crossly, thinking this a questionable meeting.
She placed herself in front of him:
"Listen to me, Mr. Shears: it is a very serious matter. I know that you are going to the Rue Murillo."
"What's that?"