"I say! don't forget the rug, Sutcliffe!" he bawled over his shoulder before finally disappearing.
"Oh no! I say, sir! That's what I want to ask you about," said Sutcliffe, scrambling into the taxi, and settling himself down with a little nod of satisfaction.
"What?" I inquired, as we bowled out of the station.
"Why, a rug for my—our—study," said the boy. "Gammage has bought no end of things to make our room comfortable, and they've sent me up some pictures and chairs and things from home—and—it would be awfully decent of you if you'd buy me a rug to put in front of the fire-place. It's rather cheek to ask, but you generally give me something when I come over to see you, and I arranged with Gammage to say I'd rather have that than anything. What sort of a shop do you get rugs at? Couldn't we get it on our way now, and then it would be done with? I might forget to ask you about it later on."
"What sort of a rug do you want?" I asked, as the taxi turned into Tottenham Court Road.
"Oh, I don't know, sir. Any sort of an ordinary kind of rug will do. There's some in that window; one of those would do."
I stopped the taxi and we got out. The window was filled with Oriental rugs and carpets, and a card in their midst stated that they were "a recent consignment of genuine old goods direct from Arabia."
"Oh, they're too expensive, I expect," I remarked, as we stood amongst a small crowd of people in front of the window, "those Oriental rugs are generally so—"
But Sutcliffe suddenly nudged my arm, and, with an amused twinkle in his eye, called my attention to a remarkable little figure standing beside him, dressed in an extraordinary yellow costume, and wearing a turban.
"Why! bless me! It's Shin Shira!" I exclaimed. "I hadn't noticed you before."