Godfrey told him and presently was being rattled back to the Charing Cross Hotel, which they reached a little later. He got out of the cab to go into the hotel when once again the man addressed him. “I owe you something,” he said, and tendered the half-sovereign. “I have no change,” said Godfrey. “Nor ’ain’t I,” said the cabman, “and if I had I wouldn’t give it you. I played a dirty trick on you and a dirtier one still when I took your half sov, I did, seeing that I ought to have known that you were just an obfusticated youngster and no bilk as I called you to them flunkeys. What you said made me ashamed, though I wouldn’t own it before the flunkeys. So I determined to pay you back if I could, since otherwise I shouldn’t have slept well to-night. Now we’re quits, and goodbye, and do you always think kindly of Thomas Sims, though I don’t suppose I shall drive you no more in this world.” “Goodbye, Mr. Sims,” said Godfrey, who was touched. Moreover Mr. Sims seemed to be familiar to him, at the moment he could not remember how, or why. The man wheeled his cab round, whipping the horse which was a spirited animal, and started at a fast pace. Godfrey, looking after him, heard a crash as he emerged from the gates, and ran to see what was the matter. He found the cab overturned and the horse with a ’bus pole driven deep into its side, kicking on the pavement. Thomas Sims lay beneath the cab. When the police and others dragged him clear, he was quite dead! Godfrey went to bed that night a very weary and chastened youth, for never before had he experienced so many emotions in a few short hours. Moreover, he could not sleep well. Nightmares haunted him in which he was being hunted and mocked by a jeering crowd, until Sims arrived and rescued him in the cab. Only it was the dead Sims that drove with staring eyes and fallen jaw, and the side of the horse was torn open. Next he saw Isobel and the Knight in Armour, who kept pace on either side of the ghostly cab and mocked at him, tossing roses to each other as they sped along, until finally his father appeared, called Isobel a young serpent, at which she laughed loudly, and bore off Sims to be buried in the vault with the Plantagenet lady at Monk’s Acre. Godfrey woke up shaking with fear, wet with perspiration, and reflected earnestly on his latter end, which seemed to be at hand. If that great, burly, raucous-voiced Sims had died so suddenly, why should not he, Godfrey? He wondered where Sims had gone to, and what he was doing now. Explaining the matter of the half-sovereign to St. Peter, perhaps, and hoping humbly that it and others would be overlooked, “since after all he had done the right thing by the young gent.”