No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. “You were seen to leave the flat, and your handkerchief was found there. “So very clear and cold,” she said. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. I'll try to fill in the gaps. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her.
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