DANIEL LEFT A NGLESEY H OUSE and wandered blindly along Piccadilly, realized he was in front of Comstock House, veered away from that, and fled into St. James's Fields – now parted into neat little squares where grass was trying to establish itself on the muck of construction. He sat on a plank bench, and slowly became aware that Roger Comstock had been following him the entire way, and that he'd (presumably) been talking the entire time. But he pointedly declined to bring his breeches into contact with the bench, a splintery improvisation strewn with pasty-flakes, pipe-ashes, and rat-shite.