He patted the boy’s head, not unkindly, and Matravers found words.
“My cab unfortunately knocked your little boy down near Trafalgar Square, but I am thankful to say that he was not hurt. I thought that I had better bring him straight home, though, as he has had a roll in the dust.”
At the sound of Matravers’ voice, the man started and looked at him earnestly. A dull red flush stained his cheeks. He looked away.
“It was very good of you, Mr. Matravers,” he said. “I can’t think what the girl could have been about.”
“I did not see her until after the accident. I am glad that it was no worse,” Matravers answered. “You have not forgotten me, then?”
John Drage shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said. “I have not forgotten you. I should have known your voice anywhere. Besides, I knew that you were in London. I saw you at the New Theatre.”
There was a short silence. Matravers glanced around the room with an inward shiver. The usual horrors of a suburban parlour were augmented by a general slovenliness, and an obvious disregard for any sort of order.
“I am afraid, Drage,” he said gently, “that things have not gone well with you.”