Ms. Madison ducked, and plunged forward, into the mighty concourse of Liverpool Street Station. Now in the heart of the city, she looked a mess, her gown torn, stockings holed, her hair wild. She hid the gun, knowing that the Police had a nasty tendency to object to people toting guns, even small ones.
She saw one of the people from Canary Wharf run up the elevators, and rushed after him. She felt something cut her feet and ignored it.
Out on the light-flooded streets of London, Ms. Madison found herself searching for signs of the villains. But among the drunken revellers, she was unable to detect them. She supported herself against a wall, wondering exactly where she would go next.
"Are you okay, Miss?" a Policeman asked, noticing the untidy blonde.
"I think so," she admitted. "Did you see any people who looked like dangerous anarchists? One of them was bleeding."
"They went that way," the man pointed.
The blonde ran past him, into a deserted side-street. There she stopped. The men were stopped too. There, at the end of the street stood a top-hatted figure, his face hidden.