There is a clannishness about motor-men, therefore the instant I had told my story he declared himself ready to assist me.
And as I sat back in the cab Langton and his friend, who had now gained Piccadilly, passed in search of a cab.
In a few moments they found one, and soon we had turned the corner of St. James’s Street, and were running down to Pall Mall, where we turned to the left, and after a sharp drive, swung into the station yard at Charing Cross.
Here the pair alighted, and, watching, I saw them stroll upon the arrival platform where, according to the chalked figures on the board, the boat-train from the Continent, already over an hour late, was now expected.
The usual crowd was waiting there, friends of passengers, porters, Customs officers, and the women agents of the various female rescue societies—an expectant crowd which, year in, year out, never differs.
The pair halted in earnest conversation about half-way along the platform, while I strolled slowly at some distance away, with my eyes upon them.
Flynn was arguing something, emphasising his words with his hands, while Langton stood by listening in silence.
Then there was the sudden movement of the porters who had noticed some signal fall, and looking towards the dark bridge I saw the headlight of the engine slowly approaching.
The doctor raised his finger to his friend, an action expressive of an injunction of silence.
Whom were they expecting to arrive?