“Wanting a taxi, sir?” said a voice which could only belong to a policeman.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Trevor bitterly. “I never want a taxi. But now and then a taxi-driver thrusts himself on me and pays me to be seen in his cab, just to give it a tone. Next question.”
“Ho!” said the policeman thoughtfully.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Trevor.
“Ho!” said the policeman thoughtfully.
“The extent of your vocabulary,” said Mr. Trevor gloomily, “leads me to conclude that you must have been born a gentleman. Have you, in that case, a cigarette you could spare?”
“Gaspers,” said the policeman.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Trevor, rejecting them. “I am no stranger to ptomaine poisoning.”
“That’s funny,” said the policeman, “your saying that. I was just thinking of death.”
“Death?” said Mr. Trevor.