I returned to her taxi, for I had already paid off my man. The driver had not seen his “fare.”
“I was hailed by the lady close to Chapel Street,” he said, “and I drove ’er to Oxford Street, not far from Tottenham Court Road. We stood at the kerb for about ten minutes. Then she ordered me to drive with all speed over ’ere.”
“Did you see her speak with any gentleman?”
“She was with a dark, youngish gentleman when they hailed me. She got in and left ’im in Chapel Street. I heard ’im say as we went off that he’d see ’er again soon.”
“That’s all you know of her?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen ’er before,” replied the driver. Then he added with a smile, “Your man’s been tellin’ me as how you thought I had a bank-thief in my cab!”
“Yes, but I was mistaken,” I said. “I must have made a mistake in the cab.”
“That’s very easy, sir. We’re so much alike—us red ’uns.”
Sylvia’s non-appearance much puzzled me. What could it mean? For another half-hour—an anxious, impatient, breathless half-hour—I waited, but she did not return.