In spite of the rate at which they were travelling they seemed a long time in getting to their destination. At last Miss Mason began to feel uneasy. She had heard of people being kidnapped and murdered on account of their money, and though she had only put ten shillings worth of silver and one sovereign in her purse, the chauffeur might think her worth infinitely more.
She decided to ask him how much further they had to go. She noticed a long tube hanging from the front window. It was no doubt a whistle. She took it up and blew gently down it. There was no sound. She collected the whole force of her lungs and blew violently. The chauffeur, feeling a sudden and unpleasant draught at the back of his neck, looked round. He saw Miss Mason purple in the face from her efforts, and the speaking tube at her lips. Fearing apoplexy he stopped the taxi and came to the door.
“Wot is it, mum?” he asked.
“I only wanted to know if we were near the address I gave you?” she said breathlessly. “I think this whistle must be out of order, I can’t make it sound.”
The chauffeur grunted. “That ain’t no bloomin’ whistle-pipe. That there’s a speakin’ toob,” he remarked scornfully. “Be at Oxford Road in five minutes now.”
He shut the door with a bang and climbed back to his seat.
“Whistle!” he said to himself. “Whistle! Thought there was a bloomin’ draught. The old party must ’ave fair busted ’erself.”
Miss Mason sank back in her corner and began to repeat the sentences in a rapid whisper.
In less than five minutes the taxi stopped before a small house divided from the pavement by a gravel plot.
The chauffeur got down and opened the taxi door.