She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters.
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