“Did you chance to notice the destination of the omnibus immediately preceding the Road Car vehicle?” said Brett.
“Yes, sir. It was an Atlas.”
“Have you noted the exact time the accident occurred?”
“Here it is, sir—10.45 a.m.”
At Victoria he was lucky in hitting upon the Camden Town ’bus itself, drawn up outside the District Railway Station, waiting its turn to enter the enclosure.
The driver was a sharp fellow, and disinclined to answer questions. Brett might be an emissary of the enemy. But a handsome tip and the assurance that a very substantial present would be forwarded to his address by the friends of the gentleman whose life he saved unloosed his tongue.
“I never did see anything like it, sir,” he confided. “The road was quite clear, an’ I was bowlin’ along to get the inside berth from a General just behind, when this yer gent was chucked under the ’osses’ ’eds. Bli-me, I would ha’ thort ’e was a suicide if I ’adn’t seed a bloke shove ’im orf the kerb.”
“Oh, you saw that, did you?”
“Couldn’t ’elp it, sir. I was lookin’ aht for fares. Jack, my mate, sawr it too.”
The conductor thus appealed to confirmed the statement. They both described the assailant as very like his would-be victim in size, appearance, and garments.