She was walking swiftly.

A turn of the passage took her in the direction of the Morrab Gardens, and he saw her no more.
Her appearance in that secluded spot was unexpected, but at the moment Austin Turold did not give it more than a passing thought.

He hurried across Market Jew Street and engaged a cabman to drive him home.
The ancient vehicle jolted over the moor road in crawling ascent, and in due time reached the spot where the straggling churchtown squatted among boulders in the desolation of the moors, wanting but cave men to start up from behind the great stones to complete the likeness to a village of the stone age.

The cab drifted along between the granite houses of a wide street, like a ship which had lost its bearings, but cast anchor before one where a few stunted garden growths bloomed in an ineffectual effort to lessen the general aspect of appalling stoniness.

Austin Turold paid the cabman and walked into this house.