At length, at the head of some stairs on the Embankment, he hailed; the cab was stopped; and he alighted—with how glad a heart! He thrust his hand into his pocket. All was now over; he had saved his life; nor that alone, but he had engineered a striking act of dynamite; for what could be more pictorial, what more effective, than the explosion of a hansom cab, as it sped rapidly along the streets of London? He felt in one pocket; then in another. The most crushing seizure of despair descended on his soul; and, struck into abject dumbness, he stared upon the driver. He had not one penny.
“Hillo,” said the driver, “don’t seem well.”
“Lost my money,” said M’Guire, in tones so faint and strange that they surprised his hearing.
The man looked through the trap. “I dessay,” said he: “you’ve left your bag.”
M’Guire half unconsciously fetched it out; and looking on that black continent at arm’s length, withered inwardly and felt his features sharpen as with mortal sickness.
“This is not mine,” said he. “Your last fare must have left it. You had better take it to the station.”
“Now look here,” returned the cabman: “are you off your chump? or am I?”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what,” exclaimed M’Guire: “you take it for your fare!”
“Oh, I dessay,” replied the driver. “Anything else? What’s in your bag? Open it, and let me see.”
“No, no,” returned M’Guire. “O no, not that. It’s a surprise; it’s prepared expressly: a surprise for honest cabmen.”