There was no sign or token of Harry. No pretty young man was
hanging dejectedly about the station. None had torn his hair
before the officials asking for news of a lost female in frowsy
black. There was no Harry. There was no further need therefore
to afford the British public a gratuitous entertainment.
"Drive," said I to the cabman. "Drive like the devil."
"Where to, sir?"
I gasped. Where should I drive? I lost my head.
"Go on driving round and round till I tell you to stop." The
philosophic cabman did not regard me as eccentric, for he whipped
up his horse cheerfully. When we had slid down the steep incline
and got free of the precincts of that hateful station, I breathed
more freely and collected my wits. Carlotta sucked her sticky
thumbs and wiped them on her dress.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Across Waterloo Bridge," said I.
"What to do?"
"To dispose of you somehow," I replied, grimly. "But how, I
haven't a notion. There's a Home for Lost Dogs and a Home for
Stray Cats, and a Lost Property Office at Scotland Yard, but as
you are neither a dog nor a cat nor an umbrella, these refuges
are unavailable.
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