“Quite right. You’re a philosopher. Let me hear the two two’s. We will see about the addition afterwards.”
“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin’ early in November. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on the District for Richmond; she gives it up to me at Sloane Square, arsks a newsboy the w’y to Raleigh Mansions, for ’e tell’d me so after you’d bin to see me, an’ from what you s’y, ’as bin swallered up ever since.”
“The Lord Chief couldn’t state the case more simply.”
“That’s the first two. Now, for the second two, an’ you won’t forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein’ dead, or I should ’ave opened my mouth long afore this.”
“Go on. No one can blame you.”
“There’s an old chap—Foxey they calls ’im, but I don’t know ’is right nyme—who drives a four-wheeler around Chelsea, an’ ’e ’ad tyken a fare from the Square to the City. It might be four o’clock or it might be five, but ’e was on ’is w’y back from Cornhill when a gent, a tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap, ’ails ’im and says: ‘Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square. There’s no ’urry, but tyke care, because it’s foggy.’ Old Foxey nearly jumped out of ’is skin at this bit of good luck. ’E was pretty full then, for ’e’s a regular beer-barrel, ’e is, but ’e made up ’is mind to ’ave a fair old skinful that night. Well, Foxey drives ’im all right to the Square. The gent gives ’im five bob and says: ‘Wite ’ere for me, cabby. You can drive me ’ome in about an hour’s time.’ This was at 5.30. Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells me all about it, an’ stan’s me two beers, ’e was that pleased with ’isself. ’E goes to give ’is ’oss the nose-bag, in comes the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”
“Every word.”
“An’ you see now ’ow it is I can fix the d’y?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed ’im about the Square, so one d’y I axes at the rank,—‘Where’s Foxey?’ An’ where d’ye think ’e was?”