"If you mykes yerself my fare," returned the cabby shrewdly, "I ham."
"Ten shillings, then, if you get us out of here in one minute and to—say—Hyde Park Corner in fifteen."
"Us?" demanded the fellow aggressively.
Kirkwood motioned toward the passageway. "There's a lady with me—there. Quick now!"
Still the man did not move. "Ten bob," he bargained; "an' you runnin' awye with th' stuffy ol' gent's fair darter? Come now, guvner, is it gen'rous? Myke it a quid an'—"
"A pound then. Will you hurry?"
By way of answer the fellow scrambled hastily up to the box and snatched at the reins. "Ck! Gee-e hup!" he cried sonorously.
By now the mews had wakened to the fact of the presence of a "toff" in its midst. His light topcoat and silk hat-rendered him as conspicuous as a red Indian in war-paint would have been on Rotten Row. A cry of surprise was raised, and drowned in a volley of ribald inquiry and chaff.
Fortunately, the cabby was instant to rein in skilfully before the passageway, and Kirkwood had the door open before the four-wheeler stopped. The girl, hugging her cloak about her, broke cover (whereat the hue and cry redoubled), and sprang into the body of the vehicle. Kirkwood followed, shutting the door. As the cab lurched forward he leaned over and drew down the window-shade, shielding the girl from half a hundred prying eyes. At the same time they gathered momentum, banging swiftly, if loudly out of the mews.
An urchin, leaping on the step to spy in Kirkwood's window, fell off, yelping, as the driver's whiplash curled about his shanks.