Grenier's name was imparted under inviolable confidence as that which he would adopt after his release. His real name, by which he was convicted, was something far less aristocratic.
Philip's driver, being of the peculiar type of Londoner which seems to be created to occupy the dicky of a hansom, did not take his master down Park Lane, along Piccadilly, and so to Pall Mall. He loved corners. Give him the remotest chance of following a zigzag course, and he would follow it in preference to a route with all the directness of a Roman road.
Thus it happened, as he spun round Carlos Place into Berkeley Square, he nearly collided with another vehicle which dashed into the square from Davies Street.
Both horses pulled up with a jerk, there was a sharp fusillade of what cabmen call "langwidge," and the other hansom drove on, having the best of the strategical position by a stolen yard.
Philip lifted the trapdoor.
"Has he a fare, Wale?"
"Yes, sir, a lydy."
"Oh. Leave him alone, then. Otherwise, I would have liked to see you ride him off at the corner of Bruton Street."
Wale, who was choleric, replied with such force that Philip tried to say, sternly:
"Stop that swearing, Wale."