'
"'It's all right,' I spoke up to the cabman. 'My friend means the
Ritz. I'm taking him there.'
"'I shouldn't, if I was you,' said the man sourly; 'not unless he's
an American.'
"'He is,' said I, 'and from Texas. I am charged to deliver him at
the Ritz, where all will be explained': and I dashed around to the
rear of the cab, collared Farrell, and hoicked him inboard. . . .
"The cab was no sooner under way and steering west-by-south than
Farrell clutched hold of me and burst into tears on my shoulder.
It appeared, as I coaxed it from him, that his mind had cast back,
and he was lamenting the dearth of policemen in Soho.
"The hole above us opened, and the cabman spoke down.
"'Are you sure you meant the Ritz, sir--really?'
"'I don't want to compromise you,' said I. 'Drop us at the head of
St. James's Street.'
"He did so; took his fee, and hesitated for a moment before turning
his horse. 'Sure you can manage the gentleman, sir?' he asked.
"'Sure, thank you,' said I, and he drove away slowly. I steered
Farrell into the shelter of the Ritz's portico, facing Piccadilly.
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