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echo that regret. But, speaking for the moment as a taxi-driver, I put it that Walsall is a tidy distance. Were you, by some process that passes my guessing, on your way to Walsall when we, as it seems, intercepted you in Piccadilly?' "'Not at all,' she answered. 'On the contrary, I was wanting to get to Shorncliffe Camp.' "I mused. 'From Walsall? . . . They must have opened a new route lately.' "'It's this way,' she told me. 'My husband's a sergeant in the Royal Artillery. He's stationed at Shorncliffe: and I was to meet him there to-night, travelling through London. When I got to London, what with the shops and staring at Buckingham Palace, and one thing and another, I missed the last train down. So, happening to find myself by a line of taxis, I had a mind to ask what the fare might be down to Shorncliffe and tell the man that my husband was expecting me and would pay at the other end. I was that tired, I got into the handiest taxi--that looked smart and comfortable, with a little lamp inside and a nice bunch of artificial flowers made up to look like my Christian name--And what do you think that is? Guess.' "'I'm hopeless with plants, ma'am," said I, looking hard at the taxi. 'Might it be Daisy?' "'No, it ain't,' said she. 'There now, you'll take a long time guessing, at that rate. It's Petunia. . . . Well, then as I was saying, I got in and sat back in the cushions, waiting for the Shofer, if that's how you pronounce it; and I reckon I must have closed my eyes, for the next thing I remember was this friend of yours sitting plump in my lap without so much as asking leave. Before I could recover myself we were off. And now, I put it to you as a gentleman, What's to become of me? For, as perhaps I ought to warn you, my husband's a terror when he's roused.' "'He's at Shorncliffe. We won't rouse him to-night,' I assured her. 'It's funny,' I went on, 'how often the simplest explanation will--' But I left that sentence unfinished. 'Have you any relatives in London?' I asked brightly. "She hesitated, but at length confessed she had a sister resident in Pimlico. "'Ah!' said I. 'She married beneath her, perhaps?' "Mrs. Petunia looked at me suspiciously in the lamplight. 'How did you guess that?' she asked. "'Simplicity itself, ma'am,' I answered. 'She could hardly have done less. And from Eaton Square to Pimlico, what is it but a step? . . . Or, you may put it down to a brain-wav
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