“Harcutt would be very much interested in this,” he declared. “What’s up outside?”
There had been a crash in the street, and the sound of a horse plunging; the two men walked to the windows. The débris of a hansom was lying in the road, with one wheel hopelessly smashed, a few yards off. A man, covered with mud, rose slowly up from the wreck. Densham and Wolfenden simultaneously recognised him.
“It is Felix,” Wolfenden exclaimed. “Come on!”
They both hurried out into the street. The driver of the hansom, who also was covered with mud, stood talking to Felix while staunching the blood from a wound in his forehead.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he was saying, “I hope you’ll remember as it was your orders to risk an accident, sooner than lose sight of t’other gent. Mine’s a good ’oss, but what is he against a pair and a light brougham? and Piccadilly ain’t the place for a chase of this sort! It’ll cost me three pun ten, sir, to say nothing of the wheel——”
Felix motioned him impatiently to be silent, and thrust a note into his hand.
“If the damage comes to more than that,” he said, “ask for me at the Russian Embassy, and I will pay it. Here is my card.”
Felix was preparing to enter another cab, but Wolfenden laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Won’t you come into my club here, and have a wash?” he suggested. “I am afraid that you have cut your cheek.”
Felix raised his handkerchief to his face, and found it covered with blood.