“No, I’m not the bloke; but I think I could find him, or what you want to know, if it was worth my while.”
“Do you know where he drove his cab last night?”
“Perhaps. Is that all you want to know?”
“That’s all. I’ll give a fiver down, and another fiver when you take me to the house. And I want no other questions answered.”
“That’s the kind of talk! You can ante up the blunt, and we will start right away.”
Eagerly Alec Booth counted out five notes to the man, and then together they left the office, and jumping into a cab at the door, drove rapidly towards the eastern suburb.
It was a long, silent drive. Alec, as he had promised, asked no questions, and the man by his side volunteered no remark, except from time to time to give the requisite notice to the driver.
Up Oxford Street, along the Old South Head Road, mile after mile, past Paddington, Woollabra, the Tea Gardens, and then out in the scrub towards the sea to the open stretch of desolate ground round about Bondi. The houses were getting fewer, and at last at a signal the cab pulled up.
“Here we are, boss. That’s the crib there across the paddock,” and the man pointed to a little cottage a few rods away, and standing back from the road. “Now you can brass up.”
A doubt crossed Alec’s mind. It might be “a have.” But he resolved to chance it. Ten pounds would neither make him nor break him; so paying the guide, who quickly walked off, he bade the cabman to wait for him, vaulted over the fence, and strode towards the house that had been pointed out.