“If you interfere between us,” the man said, “it will go hardly with you. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. The order was promptly obeyed, and the horses proceeded at a furious pace along the Edgeware Road. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time.
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