But the brightest light would not have sufficed for the scanning of his face—concealed as it was behind a covering of crape.
Before the cab carrying him had got clear of the intricacies of South Bank, a low whistle was heard both by him and his driver.
He seemed to have been listening for it; and was not surprised to see another cab—a hansom like his own—standing on the corner of Park Road as he passed out—its Jehu, with reins in hand, just settling himself upon his seat, as if preparing to start. Any one, who could have looked upon his face at the moment, could have told he had been expecting it.
Nor was he astonished, on passing through Hanover Gate, to perceive that the second cab was coming after him.
If you enter the Regent’s Park by this gate, take the left hand turning, and proceed for about a quarter of a mile, you will reach a spot secluded as any within the limits of London. It is where the canal, traversing along the borders of the Park, but inside its palings, runs between deep embankments, on both sides densely wooded. So solitary is this place, that a stranger to the locality could not believe himself to be within the boundaries of the British metropolis.
On the night in question neither the Park hag, nor its constable, were encountered along the drive. The damp, dense fog rendered it uncomfortable for both.
All the more favourable for him carried in the leading cab, whose design required darkness.
“Jarvey?” said he, addressing himself to his driver, through the little trap-door overhead. “You see that hansom behind us?”
“Can’t see, but I hear it, sir.”
“Well; there’s a gentleman inside it I intend horsewhipping.”