number ninety-five. A movement at a window caught his eye. A slim hand withdrew from sight a sign that read
‘The room of the late Harry Hamilton,’ said Cameron Bell, to no one but himself ‘Having gleaned his address from Lord Andrew Ditchfield last night, I sent a telegram first thing this morning to the proprietress of this establishment, to inform her that a gentleman in an official capacity would be arriving today to remove the late Mr Hamilton’s goods and chattels. And I am now here to present myself as this very gentleman.’
Having concluded this discourse to an imaginary audience, Mr Cameron Bell stepped up to the front door and tap-tap-tapped with the knocker.
Shortly thereafter the slim and delicate form of Lucy Gladfield opened up the door.
‘No hawkers and no circulars, sir,’ she said.
‘Neither hawker nor distributor of circulars, I, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell. ‘I sent a telegram earlier regarding the worldly goods of Mr Harry Hamilton.’
Lucy Gladfield made a puzzled face. Cameron Bell found fascination in her curious hairdo.
‘Did you receive the telegram?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes I did.’ The helter-skelter bobbed about, and the lady looked more puzzled.
‘Well, I have come to pick up the goods,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘But you already have.’
‘Please pardon me, fair lady, but I do not understand the meaning of your words.’
‘Well, not you. But your representative. A tall, very striking gentleman. He said he was authorised to collect the effects of the late Mr Harry Hamilton.’
Cameron Bell now made a puzzled face.
‘Why, there.’ The lady pointed with a pale slim hand. ‘Getting into the four-wheeled brougham over there. Mr Hamilton’s portmanteau is strapped upon the top, as you see.
‘I do,’ said Cameron Bell. And he stared aghast as he watched the tall and indeed striking individual enter the brougham and rap his malacca cane against the roof to hasten up the driver. And call out, ‘As fast as you can,’ in a curious high-pitched voice.
‘Hold hard there!’ cried Cameron Bell, making his way through passing passers-by. The driver of the brougham cracked his whip above the horses, which reared and took off as fast as might be.
‘Damn!’ cried Mr Bell. Then viewing an approaching hansom hailed it down.
Without further ado he climbed swiftly aboard and called up to the cabbie. ‘Follow that brougham!’ he cried.
The cabbie grinned down at him through the little hatchway.
‘Well, ain’t it a small world,’ he said. ‘Do you want as I should follow on all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go off like a batsman out of ‘ell?’
13
s requested, the cabbie took off like a batsman out of ‘ell.
The brougham took a sudden left and knocked a passing cleric from his penny-farthing bicycle.
‘Damnable icon-o-mo-clast!’ cried the cabbie, stirring up his horse to even greater frenzy. Not that they were making any particular headway, or indeed speed, as the streets were plentifully crowded with hansoms and horse buses, pedestrian passers-by, new electric ‘wheelers’, bawling newsboys, beggars and those picking up the Pure.
But as that was the way in which such chases were conducted, Cameron Bell leaned back in his seat and reached for his silver cigar case.
‘No smoking in the cab, sir,’ the cabbie called down to him.
‘What the dickens?’ cried Cameron Bell, rightfully appalled.
‘Only joking,’ returned the cabbie. ‘Just imagine that if you will, though. A gentleman not being allowed to smoke in a cab. A sad and sorry world that would be, to be sure.’
‘Were such an unlikely event ever to occur,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘I would expect all right-thinking Englishmen to load their pistols, march to the terrace and take the gentleman’s way out.’
The cabbie made laughter. ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘The brougham’s turning into the Strand. We’ll be able to catch him up by
‘The room of the late Harry Hamilton,’ said Cameron Bell, to no one but himself ‘Having gleaned his address from Lord Andrew Ditchfield last night, I sent a telegram first thing this morning to the proprietress of this establishment, to inform her that a gentleman in an official capacity would be arriving today to remove the late Mr Hamilton’s goods and chattels. And I am now here to present myself as this very gentleman.’
Having concluded this discourse to an imaginary audience, Mr Cameron Bell stepped up to the front door and tap-tap-tapped with the knocker.
Shortly thereafter the slim and delicate form of Lucy Gladfield opened up the door.
‘No hawkers and no circulars, sir,’ she said.
‘Neither hawker nor distributor of circulars, I, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell. ‘I sent a telegram earlier regarding the worldly goods of Mr Harry Hamilton.’
Lucy Gladfield made a puzzled face. Cameron Bell found fascination in her curious hairdo.
‘Did you receive the telegram?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes I did.’ The helter-skelter bobbed about, and the lady looked more puzzled.
‘Well, I have come to pick up the goods,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘But you already have.’
‘Please pardon me, fair lady, but I do not understand the meaning of your words.’
‘Well, not you. But your representative. A tall, very striking gentleman. He said he was authorised to collect the effects of the late Mr Harry Hamilton.’
Cameron Bell now made a puzzled face.
‘Why, there.’ The lady pointed with a pale slim hand. ‘Getting into the four-wheeled brougham over there. Mr Hamilton’s portmanteau is strapped upon the top, as you see.
‘I do,’ said Cameron Bell. And he stared aghast as he watched the tall and indeed striking individual enter the brougham and rap his malacca cane against the roof to hasten up the driver. And call out, ‘As fast as you can,’ in a curious high-pitched voice.
‘Hold hard there!’ cried Cameron Bell, making his way through passing passers-by. The driver of the brougham cracked his whip above the horses, which reared and took off as fast as might be.
‘Damn!’ cried Mr Bell. Then viewing an approaching hansom hailed it down.
Without further ado he climbed swiftly aboard and called up to the cabbie. ‘Follow that brougham!’ he cried.
The cabbie grinned down at him through the little hatchway.
‘Well, ain’t it a small world,’ he said. ‘Do you want as I should follow on all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go off like a batsman out of ‘ell?’
13
s requested, the cabbie took off like a batsman out of ‘ell.
The brougham took a sudden left and knocked a passing cleric from his penny-farthing bicycle.
‘Damnable icon-o-mo-clast!’ cried the cabbie, stirring up his horse to even greater frenzy. Not that they were making any particular headway, or indeed speed, as the streets were plentifully crowded with hansoms and horse buses, pedestrian passers-by, new electric ‘wheelers’, bawling newsboys, beggars and those picking up the Pure.
But as that was the way in which such chases were conducted, Cameron Bell leaned back in his seat and reached for his silver cigar case.
‘No smoking in the cab, sir,’ the cabbie called down to him.
‘What the dickens?’ cried Cameron Bell, rightfully appalled.
‘Only joking,’ returned the cabbie. ‘Just imagine that if you will, though. A gentleman not being allowed to smoke in a cab. A sad and sorry world that would be, to be sure.’
‘Were such an unlikely event ever to occur,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘I would expect all right-thinking Englishmen to load their pistols, march to the terrace and take the gentleman’s way out.’
The cabbie made laughter. ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘The brougham’s turning into the Strand. We’ll be able to catch him up by
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