"Ninety-nine," he shouted to the driver in his great voice. "Not nine."
Then he threw himself back against the dingy blue cushions.
Cornish turned and looked at him in surprise. "Gone off your head?" he
inquired. "It is nine--you know that well enough."
"Yes," answered White, "I know that, my good soul; but you could not
see the door as I could when we came round the corner. Roden and Von
Holzen are on the steps, coming out."
"Roden and Von Holzen in England?"
"Not only in England," said White, placidly, "but in Cambridge Terrace.
And "--he paused, seeking a suitable remark among his small selection
of conversational remnants--"and the fat is in the fire."
The cab had now stopped at the door of number ninety-nine. And if Roden
or Von Holzen, walking leisurely down Cambridge Terrace, had turned
during the next few moments, they would have seen a stationary hansom
cab, with a large round face--mildly surprised, like a pink harvest
moon--rising cautiously over the roof of it, watching them.
When the coast was clear, Cornish and White walked back to number nine.
Lord Ferriby was at home, and they were ushered into his study, an
apartment which, like many other things appertaining to his lordship,
was calculated to convey an erroneous impression. There were books upon
the tables--the lives of great and good men. Pamphlets relating to
charitable matters, missionary matters, and a thousand schemes for the
amelioration of the human lot here and hereafter, lay about in
profusion.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154