“We might go there,” I said. “Still, on second thought, I don’t think we will just now. Where is the place you go to—the place you take your—friends?”
“It’s at No. — Great Titchfield Street.”
“Is that an apartment or a hotel?”
“It’s a flat, sir, my flat. The lady lets me bring my friends there. If you like, though, we could go to a hotel. Perhaps it would be better.”
I could see that she was uncertain as to what I would think of her apartment.
“And where is the hotel? Is that nice?”
“It’s pretty good, sir, not so bad.”
I smiled. She was holding a small umbrella over her head.
“We had better take a taxi and get out of this rain.”
I put up my hand and hailed one. We got in, the driver obviously realizing that this was a street liaison, but giving no sign. London taxi-drivers, like London policemen, are the pink of civility.