"What is her name, by the way?" asked Killigrew idly.

"Blanche, I believe."

"Blanche Grey ... a rather humorous combination. Well, we must go or we
shall be keeping you from your beastly legalised murder at eight. Come
on, Ishmael!"

"I'll come up to the Strand with you," said Carminow. "I have to be
early at the prison, or one doesn't get through the crowd, not with a
single valuable left on you anyway, and lucky to keep your shirt and
trousers. You're sure you won't come? I could manage something for you."

Neither felt disposed--Ishmael not only because he knew it would make
him deadly sick, but because the mere though of it had somehow become
horrible, and Killigrew because he was rather glad to make Ishmael an
excuse for not going himself. They all strode along the dim, quiet
street, empty except for a dweller of the night who slunk into deeper
shadows on seeing that there were three of them.

"She's an interesting-looking girl, that Miss Grey," observed Killigrew,
more to try and draw Carminow than because he was really interested in
the subject himself.

"She reminded me of someone, and at first I couldn't think who," said
Ishmael, feeling a queer little pleasure at talking of her thus
casually; "and then I remembered Hilaria--you remember little Hilaria
Eliot, who used to be so jolly to us all at St. Renny?"

"She is the last person I should have compared with Miss Grey," said