He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He pulled down a chair to her left. The stranger with a bow returned to his table.
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