“Mustn’t do that, sir. It is more than my place is worth,” began the cabman.
“Two pounds for you, and I pay all fines—quick now!” said David.
The driver hesitated, but pulled up. He climbed down, went into the cab, and David was on the perch, reins in hand. Though some persons were astonished, luckily no policeman saw them. The horse, as if conscious of something from Wyoming behind him, began to run. David bolted northward out of the traffic, and careered through the emptier streets, while the old cab-horse wondered what London was coming to when such things could be, and praised the days of his youth. When David drew up at Eddystone Mansions, there was no sign of the landau. He ran up the stairs three at a time. He would not await the tardy elevator. In moments of stress we return to nature and cast off the artificial. Opening his door with his key, he made straight into the drawing-room where he had left Jenny. Then his heart sank miserably, for she was not there.
“Mrs. Grover!” he called, and when Mrs. Grover hurried from the kitchen, her hands leprous with pastry-dough, David looked at her so thunderously that she drew back.
“Where’s the girl, Mrs. Grover?” he growled.
“She’s gone, sir.”
“I see that. You let her go, Mrs. Grover?”
“Why, sir, a man came here, saying he had a message from you for the girl, and I let him in. They had a talk together, then she said she must be going. I couldn’t stop her.”
David groaned.