They took me back, they put me in the cab. I hardly knew why I resisted, except that I was looking wildly about for someone to appeal to, and I kept childishly repeating: "The Queen ... the Queen."
While Mrs. Harborough was being helped into the cab after me, I leaned out of the window on the opposite side, looking up the street and down. The wind blew cold on my wet face.
"The Queen, the Queen! Oh, why are you Queen of England, if you can't help Betty?"
The door of the public-house opened, and a man reeled out. A man in chauffeur's dress. A man—with crooked shoulders!
I remembered now.
I opened the cab-door on my side, and tore across the street with voices calling after me.
The unsteady figure had stooped down by the waiting taxi, and set the machinery whirring.
"Tell me," I bent over him. "Are you the man who brought me to Lowndes Square an hour or so ago?"
The man looked up. As the cab light fell on his face I recognised him.