"Think of it, Winter," groaned the barrister. "Whilst we were seduced by a dorking and a French sausage--an unholy alliance--the very man we wanted was waiting in Northumberland Avenue. You are avenged! All my jibes and sneers at Scotland Yard recoil on my own head. I might have known that such a desperate scoundrel would soon make another attempt, and next time upon the right person. You followed Mrs. Jiro. I am led astray by a cooked fowl. Oh, Winter, Winter, who could suspect such depravity in a roasted chicken!" "I'm dashed if I can guess what you're driving at," growled the detective. "No; I understand. The blood has left your brain and gone to your stomach. You will not be able to think for hours." Raving thus, in disjointed sentences that Winter could not make head or tail of, Brett refused to be explicit until they reached the hotel, when he discharged the cabman with a payment that caused the gentleman on the perch to spit on the palm of his hand in great glee, whilst he promptly wheeled the horse in the direction of his livery stables. They were met by David himself, seated in the foyer by the side of Helen, who looked white and frightened. "This chap is a terror," began Hume, once they were safe in the privacy of their sitting-room. "I would never have believed such things were possible in London if they had not actually happened to Robert and me to-day. We had dinner rather early, and dined in private, as Robert is feeling stiff now after this morning's adventure. Margaret suggested--" "Where is Mrs. Capella?" interrupted the barrister. Miss Layton answered: "She is with Mr. Frazer. They have found a quiet corner of the ladies' smoking-room--I mean the smoking-room where ladies go--and we have not told them yet what has happened to Davie." "Well," resumed Hume, "Margaret's idea is that we should all leave here for the North to-morrow. She wanted you to approve of the arrangement, so I got into a hansom and started for your chambers. It was raining a little, and the street was full of traffic. The driver asked if I would like the window closed, but I would sooner face a tiger than drive through London in a boxed-up hansom, so I refused. The middle of the road, you know, has a long line of waiting cabs, broken by occasional crossing-places. The horse was just getting into a trot when a man, wrapped in a mackintosh, ran alongside, caught the off rein in the crook of his stick, swung the poor beast right round through one of the gaps in the rank, and down we went--horse, cab, driver, and myself--in front of a brewer's dray. Luckily for me and the driver, we were flung right over the smash into the gutter, for the big, heavy van ran into the fallen hansom, crushed it like a matchbox, and killed the horse. Had the window been closed--well, it wasn't, so there is no need for romancing." Poor Nellie clung to her lover as if to assure herself that he was really uninjured. "Did you see your assailant clearly?"