"Oh," I said, "never mind. Let's drive quickly."
The other cab was following, and I wondered what I was "in for," when we drew up at my studio—the girl appeared to be so terrified that I gave her my key and told her to go in while I prepared to settle matters. As I alighted, I saw two rough-looking men getting off the back of the other cab. They looked such thorough blackguards that it occurred to me the girl's fears were not without grounds.
Before I could pay the cabby, the woman alighted and started to abuse me, while the bullies lurked behind.
Catching sight of a policeman sauntering up the road, I called to him to rid me of my unpleasant companions, but at his approach the woman changed her tune to a sort of snivelling self-righteousness, and said to the constable:—
"This man's my husband, I've just caught him in the very act of going off with another woman, he has deserted me cruelly."
The man looked from my face to hers in immediate understanding, and said in conciliatory tones, which betrayed a strong Lancashire accent.
"Why doant ye go 'ome with yer wife?"
"You ass. She's no more my wife than you are," I said hotly—for I was furious.
"I have the marriage certificate," broke in the woman with a well-simulated sob.
"Look 'ere," remonstrated the policeman. "Come naow," and he tried to force me into her cab.