“I want you to wait here for my return,” he told the driver.
“How long will you be, sir?”
“Not more than fifteen minutes.”
“I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed.”
Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker.
Brett glanced around. In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what the agents call “a good pull-up trade.” He pointed to it.
“I think,” he said, “if you wait there it will be more comfortable for you and equally good for the horse.”
The cabby pocketed an interim tip with a grin.
“I’ve struck it rich to-day,” he murmured, as he disappeared through a swing door bearing the legend, “Tap,” in huge letters.
Meanwhile, Brett sauntered past St. John’s Mansions. Across the road a man was leaning against the railings of a large garden, being deeply immersed in the columns of a sporting paper.