With an exclamation that might pass for a blood-curdling Levantine oath the man of the fez seized the window-curtain and pulled it down; the carriage rolled on.
"An extraordinary spectacle," I remarked. "There ought to be a big story behind that."
"I admit," said Indiman, calmly, "that it is not usual for gentlemen to drive about town with their heads done up in black bags. Nevertheless, I doubt if there is much in the mystery worthy of a connoisseur's attention. It strikes me as smacking of the made-up, the theatric; it has something of the air commercial about it—an advertisement, perhaps."
"Nonsense!" I retorted, warmly.
"Well, let the event decide. The cab's number—did you note it?"
"No."
"It was No. 872," said Indiman.