That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. ’ ‘I suppose you want to take her along as well as that infernal stolen horse?’ said Hilary sarcastically.
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