“Take me to one of the bridges,” she said.
“Which one, miss?” inquired the driver.
Once more there was a pause before the answer came. Then again he heard May’s voice.
“Westminster,” she said, and in an instant—swift as a flash of lightning—it darted across Ralph Webster’s acute brain that this actually might be May Churchill; that she might have learned the secret of which he was but too sure!
He made a hasty step toward the cab, but as he did so it started. But Webster was not a man to hesitate with such a doubt on his mind. At once he, too, hailed a cab, and bade the driver follow the one before him at his utmost speed.
“To Westminster Bridge,” he called as he leaped in, “and do not lose sight of the cab before us.”
The driver nodded and the race began. It was easy enough at first, but in the more crowded parts it was very difficult. One hansom cab is so like the other that to keep one particular cab in view was no easy task. The driver, however, did his best, but, unhappily, a slight block stopped them for a minute or two. Webster sat burning with impatience, but there was nothing for it but to wait. At last they were off again, and at last, too, they came in sight of the bridge. Then when they reached it Webster sprang out of the cab, and flung half a sovereign to the driver.
“Wait for me here,” he said; “I may want you again.”
Then he went on along the footpath, and, halfway across the bridge, he saw another cab drawn up at one side of the roadway, and as he approached this cab the driver beckoned to a passing policeman, and for a moment Webster paused to listen to what he said.