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

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

    Pantalaimon became a  and scanned t-piercing eyes. Every so often op, bristling, and surn aside from trance s to go do s of drunken laugter and ely t 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 clangorous ime soon to t ters flat, but not yet. And sometime eventually to find a place to sleep.

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

    It empting. Lyra  alaimon a sparroo ter and reaco gain ttention.

    “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 aersection. 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 coin on ter and smiled do her.

    clung to aring 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 on sreets became darker and emptier. It  even if ty sky oo tainted  to 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 corner.

    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  to chrough 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 turned, t h.

    “t ent Lyra?”

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