She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. Rowland's plans were quickly formed, and as quickly executed. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. 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. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Amongst the ring-leaders was Blueskin, whose swarthy features and athletic figure were easily distinguished. It melted her heart.
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