“I say, don’t take any notice of that solemn little humbug,” said Trevor, laughing; “you know what he always was. I—oh, my God!”
The exclamation was involuntary, for just at that moment a hansom cab was driven sharply out of the turning leading to Saint James’s Square, the horse shied—Pratt afterwards swore it was at Vanleigh’s eyes—and in another instant would have stricken down a faded-looking woman, who seemed to be crossing towards the club steps, but for the act of a passer-by.
The act was as quick as thought. With a bound he caught the woman, swung her round, and was struck by the horse full on the shoulder, to reel for a few yards with his burden, and then roll over and over in the muddy road.
The cabman pulled sharp up, and leapt off his perch with a face white as ashes, in an instant, while Trevor and Pratt ran to the fallen pair—the former to raise the woman, and carry her scared and trembling to the club steps, where Vanleigh stood looking as scared as the sufferer, while Pratt helped the gentleman to rise.
“Take me away, please; let me go—away,” said the woman, shivering with fear.
“Are you hurt?” said Trevor, with his arm still round her.
“No, no; not hurt—only let me go.”
“I couldn’t help it, gen’lemen,” began the cabman.
“No, confound you!—it was an accident, worse luck!” said the principal sufferer, “or you should have caught it sharply, Mr Nine-hundred-and-seventy-six. Here’s a pretty mess I’m in!”
“Very sorry, sir,” said the cabman,—“but—”