“There, that’ll do. Is the lady hurt?”
“No, no,” said the woman, hastily, and she glanced timidly at Vanleigh, and then at Pratt, who was watching her keenly.
Just then a four-wheeler, which Trevor had hailed, came up, and he handed her in.
“Where shall he drive you?” said Trevor, as he slipped half-a-crown in the driver’s hand.
“Twenty-seven, Whaley’s Place, Upper Holloway,” said the woman, in an unnecessarily loud voice; and the cab was driven off.
“Thank you,” said the muddy stranger, holding out a very dirty hand to Trevor, who grasped it heartily.
“Worse disasters at sea,” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” said the other, looking hard in his face, “so I suppose; but then you do get an action for damages, or insurance money. I don’t insure my clothes,” he said, looking ruefully at his muddy garments, and then at those of the man who had served him. “I say, that was very kind of you, though.”
“Nonsense!” said Trevor, laughing in the bright, earnest, middle-aged face before him. “Come into the club, and send for some fresh things.”
“Thanks, no,” said the stranger, “I’ll get back to my rooms. I must have something out of somebody, so I’ll make cabby suffer.”