I perceived a small, shiny boy by the window. Ukridge, realising with the true artist’s instinct that the secret of all successful prose is the knowledge of what to omit, had not mentioned him in his letter; and, as he turned reluctantly to go through the necessary civilities, it seemed to me that the burden was more than I could bear. He was a rat-faced, sinister-looking boy, and he gazed at me with a frigid distaste which reminded me of the barman at the Prince of Wales public-house in Ratcliff Highway. “I brought Cecil along,” said Flossie’s (and presumably Cecil’s) mother, after the stripling, having growled a cautious greeting, obviously with the mental reservation that it committed him to nothing, had returned to the window, “because I thought it would be nice for ’im to say he had seen London.” “Quite, quite,” I replied, while Cecil, at the window, gazed darkly out at London as if he did not think much of it. “Mr. Ukridge said you would trot us round.” “Delighted, delighted,” I quavered, looking at the hat and looking swiftly away again. “I think we had better go to a picture-palace, don’t you?” “Naw!” said Cecil. And there was that in his manner which suggested that when he said “Naw!” it was final. “Cecil wants to see the sights,” explained his mother. “We can see all the pictures back at home. ’E’s been lookin’ forward to seein’ the sights of London. It’ll be an education for ’im, like, to see all the sights.” “Westminster Abbey?” I suggested. After all, what could be better for the lad’s growing mind than to inspect the memorials of the great past and, if disposed, pick out a suitable site for his own burial at some later date? Also, I had a fleeting notion, which a moment’s reflection exploded before it could bring me much comfort, that women removed their hats in Westminster Abbey. “Naw!” said Cecil. “’E wants to see the murders,” explained Flossie’s mother. She spoke as if it were the most reasonable of boyish desires, but it sounded to me impracticable. Homicides do not publish formal programmes of their intended activities. I had no notion what murders were scheduled for to-day. “’E always reads up all the murders in the Sunday paper,” went on the parent, throwing light on the matter. “Oh, I understand,” I said. “Then Madame Tussaud’s is the spot he wants. They’ve got all the murderers.” “Naw!” said Cecil. “It’s the places ’e wants to see,” said Flossie’s mother, amiably tolerant of my density. “The places where all them murders was committed. ’E’s clipped out the addresses and ’e wants to be able to tell ’is friends when he gets back that ’e’s seen ’em.” A profound relief surged over me. “Why, we can do the whole thing in a cab,” I cried. “We can stay in a cab from start to finish. No need to leave the cab at all.” “Or a bus?” “Not a bus,” I said firmly. I was quite decided on a cab—one with blinds that would pull down, if possible.