The fog that hung motionless in the air turned the passers-by into ghosts at twenty yards’ distance; but in the little pools of light about the lamp posts he saw faces, darting eyes, suspicion and wariness. She led the way into a narrow alley that led off the street and into a narrow pub halfway down it. There was a small room on the first floor with a bar, tables, chairs and sofas. There were a few other punters, although not many, and an automatic piano which was activated by the insertion of a penny. Isabella sat down on one of the sofas, crossing her ankles demurely, and Harry asked what she would like to drink. She asked for a gin and peppermint and he went to the bar to get it. When he returned she had fed a penny into the piano and it responded with a brisk rendition of a waltz that he didn’t recognise. He smiled at her between sips of his beer. She was extremely pretty. She was wearing a simple black dress, the hemline daringly short––just below the knee––and a tubular bodice that draped straight down to a dropped waist.
