And of all unconscious prophecies that were ever launched, I fancy this one was about the most accurate.
Preceded by the porter carrying my bag, I crossed the platform and stepped into a waiting taxi.
"Where to, sir?" inquired the man.
I had a sudden wild impulse to say: "Drive me to George," but I checked it just in time.
"You had better drive me slowly along Oxford Street," I said. "I want to stop at one or two shops."
The man started the engine and, climbing back into his seat, set off with a jerk up the slope. I lay back in the corner, and took in a long, deep, exulting breath. I was in London—in London at last—and if those words don't convey to you the kind of savage satisfaction that filled my soul you must be as deficient in imagination as a prison governor.
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
My shopping took me quite a little while. There were a lot of things I wanted to get, and I saw no reason for hurrying—especially as McMurtrie was paying for the taxi. I stopped at Selfridge's and laid in a small but nicely chosen supply of shirts, socks, collars, and other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable Homburg hat.
The question of a suit of clothes was the only problem that offered any real difficulties. Apart from the fact that Savaroff's suit was by no means in its first youth, I had a strong objection to wearing his infernal things a moment longer than I could help. I was determined to have a decently cut suit as soon as possible, but I knew that it would be a week at least before any West End tailor would finish the job. In the meantime I wanted something to go on with, and in my extremity I suddenly remembered a place in Wardour Street where four or five years before I had once hired a costume for a Covent Garden ball.