“‘Where to?’ I asked.

“‘Forty-seven, Orange Grove, Clapham,’ she said.  ’Hoffman is the name.  You’ll easily waken the servants.’

“‘And how about the fare?’ I suggested, for I thought maybe there might be a difficulty in collecting it at the end of the journey.

“‘Here it is,’ said the young one, slipping what I felt to be a sovereign into my hand, and at the same time giving it a sort of a grateful squeeze, which made me feel as if I’d drive anywhere to get her out of trouble.

“Well, off I went, leaving them standing by the side of the road.  The horse was well-nigh beat, but at last I found my way to 47, Orange Grove.  It was a biggish house, and all quiet, as you may suppose, at that hour.  I rang the bell, and at last down came a servant—­a man, he was.

“‘I’ve got the master here,’ I said.

“‘Got who?’ he asked.

“’Why Mr. Hoffman—­your master.  He’s in the cab, not quite himself.  This is number forty-seven, ain’t it?’

“’Yes, it’s forty-seven, right enough; but my master’s Captain Ritchie, and he’s away in India, so you’ve got the wrong house.’

“‘That was the number they gave me,’ I said, ’But maybe he’s come to himself by this time, and can give us some information.  He was dead drunk an hour ago.’

“Down we went to the cab, the two of us, and opened the door.  He had slipped off the seat and was lying all in a heap on the floor.

“‘Now, then, sir,’ I shouted.  ‘Wake up and give us your address.’

“He didn’t answer.

“I gave another shake.  ‘Pull yourself together,’ I roared.  ’Give us your name, and tell us where you live.’

“He didn’t answer again.  I couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing.  Then a kind of queer feeling came over me, and I put down my hand and felt his face.  It was as cold as lead.  The cove’s dead, mate,’ I said.

“The servant struck a match, and we had a look at my passenger.  He was a young, good-looking fellow, but his face wore an expression of pain, and his jaw hung down.  He was evidently not only dead, but had been dead some time.

“‘What shall we do?’ said the flunkey.  He was as white as death himself, and his hair bristled with fear.

“‘I’ll drive to the nearest police station,’ I answered; and so I did, leaving him shivering on the pavement.  There I gave up my fare, and that was the last I ever saw of him.”

“Did you never hear any more of it?” I asked.

“Hear!  I thought I should never hear the end of it, what with examinations and inquests and one thing and another.  The doctors proved that he must have been dead at the time he was shoved into the cab.  Just before the inquest four little blue spots came out on one side of his neck, and one on the other, and they said only a woman’s hand could have fitted over them, so they brought in a verdict of willful murder; but, bless you, they had managed it so neatly that there was not a clue to the women, nor to the man either, for everything by which he might have been identified had been removed from his pockets.  The police were fairly puzzled by that case.  I’ve always thought what a bit o’ luck it was that I got my fare, for I wouldn’t have had much chance of it if it hadn’t been paid in advance.”