Everybody present, except the driver of the green taxi, saw that. And he was so fearful lest the driver of the red omnibus should lose one withering participle of the apostrophe he had provoked, that he could not be bothered with the exigencies of traffic and the Rule of the Road.
Everybody, including Mr. Justice Molehill, shouted impotently; a small page, on his way to the postoffice, stood agonizedly upon one leg; and a moment later there was a splintering crash, the blue taxi shed a cabin-trunk and a suit-case on to the pavement, and then, after a paralyzing moment of indecision, came heavily to rest against the panels of its aggressor.
Now, his lordship had no desire to become embroiled in a dispute which might easily beget a subpoena. Still, because of his elevation to the Bench, he had not resigned the fellowship of Man, and, since he was the nearest individual to the blue taxi, he stepped to it quickly and opened the door.
A man of about sixty years emerged gratefully. His cassock and the purple about his hat argued him a prelate of the Catholic Church.
"Thank you so much … No, I'm not hurt at all. I sat still because——"
"Good heavens!" cried the Judge. "I know you." The other peered at him in the half-light. "My name's Molehill. We met at Rome—over a deathbed will."
The prelate started. Then recollection came twinkling into his gentle eyes.
"Of course," he said, putting out his hand. "I remember perfectly.
Before the War. How very strange that——"
"It's Fate," said the Judge excitedly. "Or Providence. For the last three months I've been racking my brain for your name, so that I could get into——".
"Forest," said the other.