Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiar perfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neither contained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver.
"Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?"
A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wet from the press. The journal was the Gleaner's most powerful opponent.
"War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!"
His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on crying his mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "War declared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question.
"To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered.
The detective stared incredulously.
"I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite black hair——"
"Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir—yellow?"
"That one—yes!"