“Wotcher say, guv’nor?” inquired the cabman, looking from one to the other.
“I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian’s license, and give us his private address?” replied Dunbar.
“Course I can. ’E lives hat num’er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and ’e’s out o’ the big Brixton depot.”
“Oh!” said Dunbar, dryly. “Does he owe you anything?”
“Wotcher say, guv’nor?”
“I say, it’s very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever it has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right.”
Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together, appreciatively.
“Make it five bob!” he said.
“Wait downstairs,” directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the door. “I’ll get it put through for you.”
“Right ’o!” rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as a constable in uniform appeared at the door. “Good mornin’, guv’nor. Good mornin’!”
The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of fourpenny ale:—
“Here you are, Sowerby!” cried Dunbar. “We are moving at last! This is the address of the late Mrs. Vernon’s maid. See her; feel your ground, carefully, of course; get to know what
