"My friend Browne is either mad or in love," said that astonished individual as the vehicle disappeared in the traffic. "I don't know which to think. He's quite unnerved me. I think I'll go in here and try a glass of dry sherry just to pull myself together. What an idiot I was not to find out who painted that picture! But that's just like me; I never think of things until too late."
When he had finished his sherry he lit a cigarette, and presently found himself making his way towards his rooms in Jermyn Street. As he walked he shook his head solemnly. "I don't like the look of things at all," he said. "I said a lunatic asylum just now; I should have mentioned a worse place—'St. George's, Hanover Square.' One thing, however, is quite certain. If I know anything of signs, Algiers will not have the pleasure of entertaining me."
CHAPTER IV
While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne's cab was rolling along westward. He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way in and out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street. By the time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in the highest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world in general.
When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into the narrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished, and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl. At last the cabman stopped and addressed his fare.
"The fog's so precious thick hereabouts, sir," he said, "that I'm blest if I can see the houses, much less the numbers. Forty-three may be here, or it may be down at the other end. If you like I'll get down and look."
"You needn't do that," said Browne. "I'll find it for myself."
It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such a thing—on that point I cannot speak with authority—but it is quite certain that when he did get down he handed the driver half-a-sovereign. With the characteristic honesty of the London cabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarking that he could not give him change.
"Never mind the change," said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, "Put it into the first charity-box you come across."