I dashed across to the island and dodged in front of the nose of a horse; but I could not see the hansom. There were four directions in which it could have gone: up Regent Street, Glasshouse Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, or east past the Pavilion. Then a taxi slowed down immediately in front of me, and I found myself standing on the step of it, holding the door open with one hand and with the other pointing past the driver's head.
"That hansom in front—follow that hansom——"
We tried Regent Street first, for I remember seeing the revolving doors of the Piccadilly; but no hansom was to be seen. I thrust my head out of the window again.
"Quick—turn—try Shaftesbury Avenue," I cried.
He turned, but not quickly. It was a good two minutes before we reached the Grill Room entrance of the Monico. Then I lost my temper.
"A hansom, man—damn it, a hansom! Can't you follow the only hansom left in London? Ask that man on point-duty——"
But I got the impression that the police do not look with too much favour on roving orders to follow other vehicles to unspecified addresses. The constable was curt.
"There was a hansom a minute ago. If you've got his number try Scotland Yard. Come along, you can't stop here——"
I sank back cursing. In the very moment when pure chance had given him to me I had lost him again. By this time he was probably half a mile away. There was nothing whatever to be done.
"Where to now?" grunted the driver.