"Excuse me, ma'am." I said, voice quavering. "I'm looking for Mr. Phillip Gregory."<br/><br/>I was standing in the third grimy pub I had searched that night. The ceilings were low, the walls yellow, and the bar maid - if she could be called that, for she looked well past five and thirty - as poorly cleaned as the establishment she worked for. Her grey eyes widened for a moment as I said my brother's name, but her face closed quickly. "Don' know 'im, luv," she slurred in a thick Cockney accent. She picked up a glass and began polishing it with a dirty rag.<br/><br/>I was frustrated, desperate and very much afraid. I had never in my life seen such coarseness, such depravity, as I had that night; the London I knew seemed horribly far away. I had felt my reserve waver as each each person I questioned either mocked or ignored me, as men's eyes followed me possessively, as women jeered at my finery, as I thought of how besmirched I would be if discovered in such a place; but here was my first glimmer of hope. I stared at the woman and tried to steel my voice.<br/><br/>"It seems to me that you do, ma'am," I said.<br/><br/>"Well, maybe I do."  She glanced up from her glass quickly, then down at my reticule which was held firmly against my chest. "I  migh' be willin' to remember."<br/><br/>It was a moment before I realized her meaning. I blanched at the crassness of the very idea, but I was severely limited in my options. I slowly undid the clasp and slid a few pence across the bar. She snatched them up quickly, bit one, then dropped them down the front of her dress. She smiled broadly at me, exposing several spaces where teeth should have resided.<br/><br/>"'E's been 'ere. Few times."<br/><br/>"Yes?" I asked. She raised her eyebrows, and nodded her chin towards my reticule. I sighed, and put another penny on the bar.<br/><br/>"'E comes for tha special fare, if you catch my meanin'." I did not, and she must have caught it in my face.<br/><br/>"<span style="font-style: italic">Special fare.</span>" she said again, then cackled. "Do you rich girls do nuttin' bu' drink tea? He comes to ea' the<span style="font-style: italic">flowers,</span>luv."<br/><br/>"You don't mean...?" I said, my heart sinking.<br/><br/>"That's righ'." I felt like I might lose the contents of my stomach.<br/><br/>"Where is he now?"<br/><br/>"'E go' involved wiff Mr. Vallen. Workin' I mean. I fink 'e's ou' back, wiff the horses."<br/><br/>"Mr. Vallen?"<br/><br/>"No. Your Mr. Gregory."<br/><br/>I did not even thank her. I turned on my heels and rushed from the pub. I searched frantically for the stables, bolted into them, then caught my breath. With his jacket and waistcoat missing, shirt soiled, and blond hair dishevelled, my brother was still unmistakable, even while shovelling muck.