“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at daybreak. It was a respectable neighborhood at seven o’clock, or thereabouts, on a winter’s evening.”
“It ain’t my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction?”
“The lady was dead—murdered, we believe.”
The cabman’s face grew livid with anxiety.
“Oh, crikey, Mr. White,” he cried, addressing the detective, “I knew nothink about it.”
“No one says you did, Foxey,” was the reply. “Don’t be frightened. We just want you to help us as far as you can, and not to get skeered and lose your wits.”
Thus reassured, Marsh mopped his head and said solemnly:
“I will do wot lies in my power, gentlemen both, but I wish I ’adn’t bin so blamed drunk that night.”
“You say you would not recognize your fare if you saw him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if you were shown a certain person, that he was not the man? You might not be sure of the right man, but you might be sure regarding the wrong one.”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Mr. White, and it wasn’t a lot of other people I know. I think if I saw the man who really got into my keb, I would be able to swear that ’e was like him, at any rate.”