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to confess.
    Erelong we were seated in a box in the first tier. Five more tiers—decorated with gold flowers, separated by gold columns, and filled with people—rose to a domed ceiling. An enormous crystal chandelier radiated sparkling gaslight. Ladies’ fans fluttered in the heat, amidst a roar of conversation. The box afforded me a welcome measure of privacy, yet I had the prickling sensation of watchful gazes focused on me.
    “The opera is The Barber of Seville ,” said Mr. Smith, at my side.
    I noticed a man standing some fifty feet away, near the stalls in front of the stage. He was looking straight at me. My poor eyesight could barely discern that he had dark hair and wore dark clothing, and I perceived an air of menace about him. Then he abruptly turned away.
    “Anne,” I whispered, nudging my sister, “do you see that man?”
    “Which one?” Anne sounded puzzled.
    Alas, our view was at that moment obscured by other persons, and by the time they had passed, he was gone. “Never mind.” I thought of the black coach: Had it brought that man here to watch me? Was he connected with Isabel White’s murder? Anxiously I searched the audience for him. He seemed a disembodied, threatening presence spread throughout the crowd. People peered through opera glasses, and whenever I saw them pointed my way, I cringed.
    The lights dimmed, and a hush descended upon the audience. The orchestra played the overture, and the stage curtain lifted, revealing a medieval street scene. An actor dressed in a cape and wide-brimmed hat strode onto the stage. A band of musicians assembled, and he sang a serenade. It was very grand, but because the opera was performed in Italian, I didn’t understand a word. My sense of ominous, hidden watchers burgeoned. The warm air of the theatre was tainted with gas fumes that worsened my headache. As the drama unfolded, a female singer performed an aria; her high, piercing notes reminded me of Isabel White’s screams. I swallowed an eruption of nausea.
    “Please excuse me,” I whispered to George Smith. I dreaded leaving the safety of the box alone, yet that seemed preferable to vomiting in front of him.
    I clambered from my seat and stumbled out the door of the box. The long corridor was vacant. As I hurried along it, I heard stealthy footsteps following me. Too afraid to look back, I walked faster. Vivacious music emanated from inside the theatre. The footsteps quickened; they echoed the pounding of my heart. A stairwell appeared, and I ran down iron stairs. I heard the metallic racket of my pursuer descending after me. Desperate, gasping for breath, and direly ill, I burst through a doorway, into another corridor.
    A door flew open right in front of me, releasing loud, uproarious singing. A group of ladies poured from their box. I followed them down the grand staircase, grateful for their unwitting protection. Outside I relieved my illness at last. My pursuer had disappeared.
    When I returned to my box, I met George Smith outside its door. “I was looking for you,” he said. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, I am, thank you,” I said. We resumed our seats, but the opera was lost on me. I could neither forget my frightening experience nor cease to ponder its meaning.

    It was past one o’clock of Sunday morning when Anne and I returned to the Chapter Coffee House. The inn was silent; Paternoster Row slumbered. As we trudged up the stairs to our room, I told Anne what had happened at the opera.
    “Dear Charlotte, are you sure that someone was chasing you?” Anne said skeptically.
    “Quite sure,” I said.
    “But even if it was the man who killed Isabel White, what could he want with you?”
    “Perhaps he believes I can identify him to the police, and he wishes to stop me.”
    “But you didn’t obtain a good look at his face.”
    “He cannot know that,” I said.
    “Why didn’t you mention the incident to Mr. Smith? There was ample time during the interval, when he could have asked