"Piccadilly Circus!" he shouted. The cab was off.
We sat in silence, I in a state of mind which I should find some difficulty in making plain. I will not attempt it. I will only say that I should have dearly liked to have taken my friend, the stranger, by the scuff of his neck and to have thrown him out into the street. I did not dare.
When we were clear of the traffic I asked him, in a voice which I scarcely knew to be my own, it was so husky and dry--
"What did you mean by saying that you travelled from Brighton in the next compartment to mine?"
"Mean? My dear sir, I meant what I said. It was a coincidence--nothing more." He spoke lightly; impudently even. I felt incapable of pressing him for a more precise explanation. He added, as a sort of afterthought, "I'm a detective."
I turned to him with a start. "A detective?"
He pretended to be surprised by my surprise.
"What's the matter, my dear sir?" He paused. Then, with a sneer, "I'm not that sort. I'm the respectable sort. I'm a private detective, sir. I make delicate inquiries for persons of position and of means." He emphasised "means." "Have you a cigar?"
"I gave him one; he proceeded to light it. I was conscious that, since I had admitted him to a share of the cab, a change had taken place in his bearing. It was not only familiar, it was positively brutal. Yet, strange though it may appear--and I would point out that nothing is so common as that sort of wisdom which enables us to point out the folly of each other's behaviour--I found myself unable to resent it.
"I've been down to Brighton on business; to make inquiries about a woman."