“I won’t keep you long,” he said; “but I must compare these papers. You are not going anywhere else, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir; I am going up to Westmouth Street, Cavendish Square.”
“Indeed! Hah! that’s a good walk for you; or, no, I suppose Mr Lister told you to take a cab?”
“No, sir,” I said colouring; “I am going to walk.”
“Oh, absurd! Too far. Lawrence,” he cried, after touching a bell, and the boy clerk appeared, “have a cab to the door in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will pay for the cab, my lad,” continued Mr Brandsheim, slipping a couple of shillings into my hand. “I must keep you waiting a little while. Let me see—let me see—you didn’t go to the races, I suppose?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister did, eh?”
“Mr Lister did, sir, I believe. Mr Ruddle never goes, I think.”