"HE SPRANG ON THE STEP AND DRAGGED FORTH THE PACKAGE."
At a late hour he rose reluctantly to go. When the front door closed on him, and he had climbed into a cab, the manuscript on the seat beside him, he realised suddenly how hopeless his case had become. How could he make a stand against the publication of the novel without exposing himself to the scorn of the young lady, and writing himself down an arrant hypocrite in her eyes and in the eyes of the father? He had committed himself beyond redemption.
Suddenly a thought struck him. Suppose the MS. was lost! Suppose he left it in the cab! He remembered there was no name on the parcel. At the impulse of the moment, without stopping to consider the futility of the project, or the objection to it on a moral score, he shouted to the cab to stop, and almost before it had come to a stand he was in the road. Just opposite were the Houses of Parliament. Thrusting some silver into the man's hand, he set off at a rapid pace across Westminster Bridge. There were few passers-by, and after a minute or two of rapid walking he broke into a run. The stony stare of a solitary policeman caused him to adopt a meditative saunter.
As he walked on, he looked out for another cab. At length he heard wheels behind him and turned joyfully. Alas! it was the cab he had just relinquished.
"Hi, sir!" shouted the man, "You've left a parcel be'ind you."
For a moment Didcott stood paralysed. "No, I didn't," he said, at length.
"What!" said the cabman.
"It isn't mine," said Didcott, faintly.
"Why," said the cabman, astonished, "I saw the blooming servant hand it in to you."