Meanwhile Polly and her escort gaily went on their way. They were dimly
conscious of the affray but such occurrences at night and especially in
Lincoln's Inn Fields were frequent, and not one of the party heeded. How
indeed could Polly imagine that her romance had ended in a tragedy, that
the man lying so still, his white face upturned to the moonlit sky, was
her lover, Lancelot Vane--that the man who had done him to death was
Jeremy Rofflash--that the woman in hot chase of his murderer was Sally
Salisbury?
Rofflash had made for the network of courts and allies of Clare Market
hoping to double upon his pursuers and gain the Strand, and then hurry
to the Alsatia of Whitefriars. But some of those following knew the
intricacies of Clare Market better than Rofflash, and he twisted and
turned like a hunted hare, his difficulties momentarily increasing, for
as the excited mob fought their way through the narrow lanes their
numbers swelled. True, Jeremy Rofflash made his way to the Strand
without being captured, but he failed to reach Whitefriars. The Strand
and Fleet Street gave his pursuers a better chance. But because of his
pistol none dared touch him.
Despite his limp he could run. Along Ludgate skirting St. Paul's, he was
soon in Cheapside. By this time Sally Salisbury was nearly exhausted,
and in St. Paul's Churchyard she jumped into a hackney coach and shaking
her purse at the driver bade him join in the pursuit.
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