The result was that we came in by a route which made up in length what it lacked in refinement. Interminable slums, lit by flaring public-houses just discharging their crowds into the street, rolled past us in monotonous succession. Twice we had to slow up to allow for the passage of two perspiring policemen and an obstructive prisoner, followed in either case by a vociferous, but judiciously unenterprising, crowd.
At last the houses began to give place to warehouses and factories, and in a few minutes we were threading the practically deserted thoroughfares of the City.
"We're all right now," observed Billy complacently. "Where do you want to go to?"
"Mercia is going to put up at an hotel for the night," I said. "We'll take her there, and then go on to Park Lane."
"What about the Inns of Court?" he suggested. "I stayed there for a fortnight last month, so I know the manager."
Mercia, who was looking very tired, nodded her head.
"That will do, Billy," I said. "Then you can go in and see him and arrange about the room. Tell him we've had a breakdown or something."
We passed the Mansion House and turned down Cheapside, pulling up at the door of the hotel, where Billy disentangled himself somewhat stiffly from the wheel.
"I'll just run in and fix things up," he said. "I shan't be a minute."
Mercia and I sat on in the car, in the broad lamplit thoroughfare, which at this hour was practically deserted. I took her hand and raised it gently to my lips.