The horse was evidently beginning to fail, and he saw that this chariot-race must soon come to an end. The street-lamps and the shop windows were all lit up by this time, and the dusk was pretty thick. It seemed to him that he might venture to try his luck on foot, and he began to look out for an opening where a cab could not follow. They were flogging along a noisy stone-paved road where there was little other traffic; on one side stood an unbroken row of houses, and on the other were small semi-detached villas with little strips of garden about them. All at once he saw a doctor’s red lamp over the door of one of these half villas, and an inspiration came upon him. “One can always visit a doctor,” he said to himself, and smiled in great amusement at something in the reflection. He stopped the cab, handed the man half a sovereign, and saying only, “Drive away again, quickly,” jumped out, glanced at the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. As he waited on the step he saw the other cab stop a little way back, and his pursuer emerge. A frowsy little servant opened the door. “Is Dr Twiddel at home?” he asked. “Dr Twiddel’s abroad, sir,” said the maid. “No one in at all, then?” “Dr Billson sees ’is patients, sir—w’en there _his_ any.” “When do you expect Dr Billson?” “In about an hour, sir, ’e usually comes hin.” “Excellent!” thought Mr Bunker. Aloud he said, “Well, I’m a patient. I’ll come in and wait.” He stepped in, and the door banged behind him. CHAPTER VIII. “This w’y, sir,” said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened. The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind. The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge. Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again. “He means to play the waiting game,” said Mr Bunker to himself. “Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!” He took a rapid survey of the room. He saw the medical library, the rented furniture, and the unlit gas-stove; and at last his eye fell upon a box of cigarettes. To one of these he helped himself and leaned his back against the mantelpiece. “There must be at least one room at the back,” he reflected; “that room must have a window, and beyond that window there is all London to turn to. Friend Moggridge, I trust you are prepared to spend the evening behind your bush.” He had another look through the blind and shook his head. “A little too light yet,—I’d better wait for a quarter of an hour or so.”