It flashed across his mind that, unless driven to it by an attack, his captor would do nothing for the moment without running grave risks himself. To shoot now would be to attract attention. The cab would be overtaken at once by bicycle police, and stopped. There would be no escape. No, nothing could happen till they reached open country. At least he would have time to think this matter over in all its bearings.
Mr. Parker ignored the question. He was sitting in the same attitude of watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful of John's right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from this quarter that he appeared to expect attack. The cab was bowling easily up the broad street, past rows and rows of high houses each looking exactly the same as the last. Occasionally, to the right, through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river could be seen.
A faint hope occurred to John that, by talking, he might put the other off his guard for just that instant which was all he asked. He exerted himself to find material for conversation.
"Tell me," he said, "what you said about Mr. Scobell, was that true? About his being ill in bed?"
Mr. Parker did not answer, but a wintry smile flittered across his face.
"It was not?" said John. "Well, I'm glad of that. I don't wish Mr. Scobell any harm."
Mr. Parker looked at him doubtfully.
"Say, why are you in this game at all?" he said. "What made you butt in?"
"One must do something," said John. "It's interesting work."
"If you'll quit—"