As he flung himself into the vehicle he seriously
feared he was on the point of breaking a blood vessel,
never had he been at such extremity of breath.
But his eyes clung to the brougham in dread lest he
should lose sight of it, or confuse it with another.
The driver whipped his horse. Thank goodness,
the carriage remained well in sight. But if there
should come a block! A perilous point was Piccadilly
Circus. Never, it seemed to him, had the streets
of London roared with such a tumult of traffic.
Right! The Circus was passed; now Piccadilly
with its blessed quietness. What a speed they
kept! Hyde Park Corner, Knightsbridge, and—what
road was that? Christopher’s geography
failed him; he pretended to no familiarity with the
West End. On swept his hansom in what he felt
to be a most impudent pursuit; nay, for all he knew,
it might subject him to the suspicion of the police.
The cabby need not follow so close; why, the horse’s
nose all but touched the brougham now and then.
How much farther? How was he to get back?
He could not possibly reach home till one in the morning.
The brougham made a sharp curve, the hansom followed.
Then came a sudden stop.
CHAPTER XV
THE NAME OF GILDERSLEEVE
A square—imposing houses about a space
of verdure. That was what Christopher perceived
as he looked wildly round, flung back the apron, jumped
out. His position was awful; voices of the persons
alighting from the brougham seemed to sound at his
very ear; he had become one of the party; the man
in evening dress stared at him. But even in this
dread moment so bent was he on fulfilling his mission
that he at once cast an eye over the front of the house
to fix it in his memory. There was a magnificent
display of flowers at every window; the houses immediately
right and left had no flowers at all.
Then he fumbled for money. Coppers, a sixpence,
a shilling, no other small change, and he durst not
offer so little as eighteenpence. (However, Heaven
be thanked! the people had gone in and the brougham
was moving away.) In his purse he had half a sovereign.
“Got change?” he inquired as boldly as
possible.
“How much?” returned the driver curtly,
for he had noticed with curiosity that his fare exchanged
no greeting with the carriage people and that the
door was shut.
“Change for half a sovereign. Seven shillings
would do.”
“Ain’t got it. See, fourpence in
’apence, that’s all.”
The man’s eye began to alarm Christopher.
He shook with indecision, he gulped down his bitterness,
he handed the golden coin.
“All right; never mind change.”
“Thanky, sir. Good night.”
And Mr. Parish was alone on the pavement. So
grievously did he feel for the loss of that half-sovereign
that for some moments he could think of nothing else.
His heart burned against Polly. What had she
got to do with those people in the big house?
How could he be sure that it did not imply some shameful
secret? And he must go throwing away his hard-earned
money! Gladly he would have spent it on a supper
for Polly; but to pay ten shillings for a half-crown
drive! A whole blessed half-sovereign!
