The man was telling the truth. He was blear-eyed with misery. Brett looked at Hume, and the latter rang a bell. He asked the waiter for a pen and ink.
“How much did your cab cost?” he said to the driver, who was so downcast that he actually failed to correctly interpret David’s action. The question had to be repeated before an answer came.
“It wasn’t a new ’un, mister. I was just makin’ a stawt. I gev fifty-five pound fer it, an’ three pun ten to ’ave it done up. But there! What’s the use of talkin’? I’m orf ’ome, I am, to fice the missis.”
“Wait just a little while,” said David kindly. “You hardly understand this business. The madman who attacked us meant to injure me, not you. Here is a cheque for £100, which will not only replace your horse and cab, but leave you a little over for the loss of your time.”
Winter caught the dazed cabman by the shoulder.
“Billy,” he said, “you know me. Are you going home, or going to get drunk?”
Billy hesitated.
“Goin’ ’ome,” he vociferated. “S’elp me—”
“One moment,” said Brett. “Surely you have some idea of the appearance of the rascal who pulled your horse over?”
The man was alternately surveying the cheque and looking into the face of his benefactor.