One of a Crowd.
Within half a minute a crowd had gathered around the cab.
The instant the cabman raised the alarm the constable was joined by the burly door-opener of the Criterion in gaoler-like uniform and the round-faced fireman, who, lounging together outside, were ever on the look-out for some diversion. But when the constable agreed with the cab-driver that the lady was dead, their ready chaff died from their lips.
“What do you know of her?” asked the officer of the cab-driver.
“Nothing, beyond the fact that I drove ’er from Charin’ Cross with a gentleman. She’s a foreigner, but he was English.”
“Where is he?” demanded the constable anxiously, at that moment being joined by two colleagues, to whom the fireman in a few breathless words explained the affair.
“He went into the bar there ’arf an hour ago, but he ain’t come out.”
“Quick. Come with me, and let’s find him,” the officer said.
Leaving the other policemen in charge of the cab, they entered, and walked down, the long, garish bar, scrutinising each of the hundred or so men lounging there. The cabman, however, saw nothing of his fare.
“He must have escaped by the back way,” observed the officer disappointedly. “It’s a strange business, this.”