Tom caught the old fellow’s hand in his, and it was retained.
“Stop one moment, my lad,” he said. “You feel some shrinking about your brother’s disgrace. I was burning these by degrees. See—the last of the forged bills.”
He took six from his pocket-book, and burned them.
“There,” he said, “that business is dead, and you can go with a lighter heart. Perhaps I shall come down next week. Be off.”
Tom bounded down the stairs, leaped into the first cab, and bade the man gallop to London Bridge station.
“All right, sir.”
The little door in the roof was slammed down, there was a flick of the long whip, and for about half a minute the horse broke into a short canter, one which subsided into a trot a few minutes later.
A loud rattling at the top of the cab spurred the driver to fresh exertions, and once more the wretched horse cantered, but dropped again into a trot, and there was an end of it. Tom had to sit and fume, as at every turn he seemed to be hemmed in by other vehicles; and, no matter how the driver tried, there was always a huge, heavily-laden van in front, blocking up the way.
“I think I’ll take a short cut round, sir,” said the cabman. “The streets is werry full to-night.”
“Anything to get there quickly.” So the driver turned out of the main thoroughfare, and began to dodge in and out of wretched streets, all of which seemed ill lighted, and so strongly resembled the one the other, that Tom soon grew bewildered, and sat back thinking, and trying to arrange his thoughts.