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“‘Cabman,’ said the stout lady, with a very shaky voice, ‘I wish you would help us in this painful business.’ Those were her very hidentical words.

“‘Cert’nly, mum,’ I says for I saw my way to a good thing. ‘What can I do for the young lady and yourself?’ I mentioned the other in order to console her like, for she was sobbing behind her veil something pitiful.

“‘The fact is, cabman,’ she answers, ‘this gentleman is my daughter’s husband. They have only just been married, and we are visiting at a friend’s house near here. My son-in-law has just returned in a state of complete intoxication, and my daughter and I have brought him out in the hope of seeing a cab in which we could send him home, for we have most particular reasons for not wishing our friends to see him in this state, and as yet they are ignorant of it. If you would drive him to his house and leave him there, you would do us both a very great kindness, and we can easily account to our hosts for his absence.’

“I thought this rather a rum start, but I agreed, and no sooner had I said the word than the old one she pulls open the door, and she and the other, without waiting for me to bear a hand, bundled him in between them.

“‘Where to?’ I asked.

“‘Forty-seven, Orange Grove, Clapham,’ she said. ‘Hoffman is the name. You’ll easily waken the servants.’

“‘And how about the fare?’ I suggested, for I thought maybe there might be a difficulty in collecting it at the end of the journey.

“‘Here it is,’ said the young one, slipping what I felt to be a sovereign into my hand, and at the same time giving it a sort of a grateful squeeze, which made me feel as if I’d drive anywhere to get her out of trouble.

“Well, off I went, leaving them standing by the side of the road. The horse was well-nigh beat, but at last I found my way to 47, Orange Grove. It was a biggish house, and all quiet, as you may suppose, at that hour. I rang the bell, and at last down came a servant–a man, he was.

“‘I’ve got the master here,’ I said.

“‘Got who?’ he asked.

“‘Why Mr. Hoffman–your master. He’s in the cab, not quite himself. This is number forty-seven, ain’t it?’

“‘Yes, it’s forty-seven, right enough; but my master’s Captain Ritchie, and he’s away in India, so you’ve got the wrong house.’

“‘That was the number they gave me,’ I said, ‘But maybe he’s come to himself by this time, and can give us some information. He was dead drunk an hour ago.’

“Down we went to the cab, the two of us, and opened the door. He had slipped off the seat and was lying all in a heap on the floor.

“‘Now, then, sir,’ I shouted. ‘Wake up and give us your address.’

“He didn’t answer.

“I gave another shake. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I roared. ‘Give us your name, and tell us where you live.’

“He didn’t answer again. I couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing. Then a kind of queer feeling came over me, and I put down my hand and felt his face. It was as cold as lead. The cove’s dead, mate,’ I said.

“The servant struck a match, and we had a look at my passenger. He was a young, good-looking fellow, but his face wore an expression of pain, and his jaw hung down. He was evidently not only dead, but had been dead some time.

“‘What shall we do?’ said the flunkey. He was as white as death himself, and his hair bristled with fear.

“‘I’ll drive to the nearest police station,’ I answered; and so I did, leaving him shivering on the pavement. There I gave up my fare, and that was the last I ever saw of him.”