Cynthia Bailey Pratt Read Free Page A

coat, doing the best it could to hide the feminine contours of her figure.
    The stranger said, “Do you know that man?”
    “What man, sir?” she said, keeping her voice low. “I’m taking you to that inn you asked for.”
    She could not help looking behind her. Cocker was not yet at the opening to the alley. She knew the man she led noticed her anxiety, but he asked no more questions. Jocelyn thought that was fair of him, as he would answer none.
    Jocelyn led him down Stone Alley, through Vetter Lane, and into Spenser Court. A hostelry stood there that her oldest cousin Tom and his friends condemned as “too dull.” She’d never been there, knowing only its general location. Jocelyn felt both surprise and pleasure at finding it so easily. Perhaps, she thought, I know Libermore better than I believed.
    The inn was a small wooden building squeezed into a dark corner. Dilapidated balconies hung in front of the second-story windows. The buildings on either side of the alley were also old and seemed to lean over them, cutting out the sky and all save a little light. The sun seemed dimmer, and a thin wind blew down the cracks between the buildings.
    “There, sir. Is this all right?”
    He surveyed the inn carefully before approaching any closer. “Yes, it may serve.” He gasped suddenly and lurched as his feet slipped in the mud. When he brought out the hand that he had held to his side, Jocelyn was horrified to see a stain on the handkerchief he held between his fingers. There was too little light in the narrow alley to see the color, but Jocelyn’s eyes grew wide as she guessed what the stain was.
    “Go along, boy. And thank you,” he said in a faint, gasping voice that Jocelyn did not like the sound of at all.
    Though it was growing late and she felt she really ought to find her cousins and return home, Jocelyn could not make herself turn away and leave him in this dark and lonely place. “Sir? Let me help you.” She stepped nearer to him and put her white hand on his arm.
    The man’s breath was more labored now than it had been after their frantic run. He nodded, accepting her help with reluctant gratitude or, she thought, as if he lacked the strength to force her to leave.
    He leaned against the rough brick of the wall, saying, “If you would, go in and ask them to give me a room. It must be on the second floor, one . . . one that faces this way. Can you do that?”
    She found it difficult to understand him, for now every sentence was accompanied by long sighing breaths, and the ugly rasp in his voice increased from moment to moment. Jocelyn said, “Yes, sir. Gladly.”
    “Go on, then.” He slowly drew a soft wallet from his breast pocket and handed her two or three coins. “Pay my lodging for ... a week. Yes, a week.”
    She took the coins and half-turned away, hesitant to leave him. Full of questions, she wetted her lips and said, “Sir . . . ?”
    His clean hand darted out with the same speed that had taken the officer by surprise. He gripped her by the arm, his fingers biting with terrible strength. His dark eyes burned into hers as he whispered, “No questions.”
    Jocelyn could do nothing but nod. He seemed to take her response as a promise and let go. She looked back once to where he leaned against the wall, hunched over, his eyes closed.
    The landlord looked at her suspiciously and scratched at his unshaved chin as Jocelyn tried hard to imitate the brusque manners of the street boys who picked up pennies by running messages. It wasn’t easy to answer the man’s natural questions, and she wondered what lies she could tell if her stranger faltered before safely in his room. Jocelyn knew that the landlord would pitilessly turn the man out if there was the slightest chance of his dying while in the inn. At last the landlord agreed to accept the money, and Jocelyn turned to bring the man back. She regretted leaving him so long. What if he had fainted—or worse?
    As she went out, Jocelyn was pushed