S . tangle of narroreets betistitute, o t dark maze she hurried now.

        If only sreets to avoid; or    cold nig a life, and s.

        Pantalaimon became a    and sed t-pierg eyes. Every so often op, bristling, and surn aside from trao go do s of drunken laugter a all, alaimons, keeping to the narrow alleys.

        From time to time so cross a    street, s, but sook no notice, and wed, she fled.

        It o be free again. S Pantalaimon, padding on    pao be in t    and gorous ime soon to t ters flat, but not yet. And sometime eventually to find a place to sleep.

        At a crossroads ment store    pavement, tall: a little    on    s. te-coated oer talking to tomers.

        It empting. Lyra    alaimon a sparroo ter and reaco gaiion.

        “Cup of coffee and a ham sandwich, please,” she said.

        “Youre out late, my dear,” said a gentleman in a top    and we silk muffler.

        “Yeaurning aerse. A ter nearby    emptying, and croed foyer, calling for cabs, s around tion rance of a Cation, eps.

        “all man. “two shillings.”

        “Let me pay for top .

        Lyra t, er t need all my money later. top-ted man dropped a    on ter and smiled do her.

        g t round-eyed at Lyra.

        S into    reet. S even knoo find try.

        “s your name?” said the man.

        “Alice.”

        “ts a pretty name. Let me put a drop of to your coffee...warm you up...”

        op of a silver flask.

        “I dont like t,” said Lyra. “I just like coffee.”

        “I bet youve never his before.”

        “I tle, or nearly.”

        “Just as you like,” said tilting to his?”

        “Going to meet my father.”

        “And whos he?”

        “hes a murderer.”

        “?”

        “I told you, s onig hes in here, cause hes usually all covered in blood when hes finished a job.”

        “Ah! Youre joking.”

        “I ent.”

        ttered a soft me at olidly and ate t of her sandwich.

        “Goodnig angry.”

        top- man glanced around, and Lyra set off toer croer     really intended for people of trapped underground; better to be out in to.

        On and os became darker aier. It    even if ty sky oo taio sars. Pantalaimon t t well?

        Endless streets of little identical brick bin; great gaunt factories be glocory, only distinguisside. Once sried to    a the porch was full of sleeping figures, and fled.

        “o sleep, Pan?” srudged doreet of closed and stered shops.

        “A doorway somewhere.”

        “Dont    to be seen theyre all so open.”

        “there....”

        o t. Sure enougcer, and    to look, tied up at ter, some lo s, and a tal cs , acks of great round logs, h rolls of cauchuc-covered cable.

        Lyra tiptoed up to t and peeped in at tureStory paper and smoking a pipe, able. As s up and brougtle from tove and poured some    er into a cracked mug before settling back h his paper.

        “So let us in, Pan?” s racted; , an o again; sc time as    .

        Pantalaimon uttered a    tangling ed past o snt do    boxed in a er.

        Pantalaimon, an eagle no ! Left!”

        S    barrels and ted iron sed for it like a bullet.

        But ts! S ung, and loatarred strings ruggling in vain.

        “Pan! Pan!”

        But tore at t Pantalaimon, and Lyra felt t cry as ly las, body,    ground. Sly like a fly being trussed by a spider. Poor    Pan    th his neck—

        till as tying t sa too.

        Pantalaimon sat up and blinked, and t t man fell c across Lyra,    strings fell ating, and o cuddle Pantalaimon.

        Kneeling, sed to look up at tur h.

        “t ent Lyra?”

        A familiar voice, but s place it till epped f. A gyptian! A real yptian! “tony Costa,” o play tle brots in Jeric him.”
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