Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. I could not love you else. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in.
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