"And you can go and fetch a hansom-cab, George, while she's a-doing of
it," said Mr. Kemp. "Pick out a good 'orse--spotted-grey, if you can."
Mr. Wright arose and, departing with a suddenness that was almost
startling, exploded harmlessly in front of the barber's, next door but
one. Then with lagging steps he went in search of the shabbiest cab and
oldest horse he could find.
"Thankee, my boy," said Mr. Kemp, bluffly, as he helped Mrs. Bradshaw in
and stood with his foot on the step. "By the way, you had better go back
and lock my pocket-book up. I left it on the washstand, and there's best
part of a thousand pounds in it. You can take fifty for yourself to buy
smokes with."
There was a murmur of admiration, and Mr. Wright, with a frantic attempt
to keep up appearances, tried to thank him, but in vain. Long after the
cab had rolled away he stood on the pavement trying to think out a
position which was rapidly becoming unendurable. Still keeping up
appearances, he had to pretend to go home to look after the pocket-book,
leaving the jubilant Mr. Hills to improve the shining hour with Miss
Bradshaw.
Mr. Kemp, returning home at midnight--in a cab--found the young man
waiting up for him, and, taking a seat on the edge of the table, listened
unmoved to a word-picture of himself which seemed interminable.
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