“Park Lane!�
“’Ow?� asked the driver.
“To Park Lane, very quickly.�
“Certainly, sir,� mumbled the driver, climbing up the back and tilting the shafts to a dangerous angle. “Gee-up!� he added, cracking the whip.
Fay stopped the cab at the corner of Hyde Park where Oxford Street is joined by Park Lane. He sprang out, tossed the leaning driver two bright shillings and started south toward the looming shadows of many mansions.
Reaching Hyde Park Corner he struck westward in a long swinging glide. The hour was after two. The night was a black pocket, blurred here and there with blue jewels from the arcs.
He had planned to take a night’s rest at the hotel which flanked Clanson’s Antique Shop. The dealer’s statement concerning Dutch Gus, and, moreover, Saidee Isaacs, changed this plan. He wanted to walk in the wide places. No trace of drowsiness weighed
his eye-lids. Shepherd Bush—the Thames—Richmond and Hammersmith, were ahead of him. There was no law in England that prevented a man taking the road. Fay went on, with his oakum-stained nails gripping his palms, his eyes set ahead and slightly upward where the yellow vault of the London sky pressed down on his throbbing temples.
He came, but not by design, to hedge-ensconced villas and the many winding lanes of Richmond Hill!
“Number 4, Rose Crescent,� flashed through his brain. This was the address given to him by Sir Richard Colstrom.