“You have an engagement for half-past three, sir––Miss Langdon’s.”

Micky was yawning over the paper then; he looked up with an absurdly blank face.

“Oh, I say!––well, I can’t go, anyway. What was it for? I’m going out––I’ve got an important appointment.”

Driver never showed surprise at anything if he felt it.

“It was a musical ‘At ’Ome,’ sir,” he answered stolidly. “Shall I ring up and say that you won’t be able to come?”

“Yes, ring up,” said Micky. He coloured self-consciously beneath the man’s stoic eyes and hurriedly buried his head again in the newspaper.

32

At three o’clock he changed his clothes for an immaculate morning-coat and grey trousers; then, remembering what Esther had said about the very horrid boarding-house, he changed them again for the oldest tweed suit in his possession, and a pair of brown boots that had seen their best days and long since been condemned by Driver.

“How in the world do I get to Brixton?” Micky asked the man when he was ready. “I know I could take a taxicab, but I don’t want to. What other ways are there?”

Driver told him.

“There’s the train, sir, or a tram.”

Micky jumped at the tramcar. He was sure that people who lived in Brixton must all use tramcars.

“How long would a tramcar take?” he asked.

Driver considered. Finally he said that he thought it might be the best part of an hour.

Micky glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past three. He took up his hat hurriedly and went out into the street.

A taxicab would have to do for to-day anyway. He could dismiss it at the corner of the road and walk the last few yards. A moment later he was being whirled through the streets.

He sat leaning back in the corner with his feet up on the seat opposite, feeling decidedly nervous.

Supposing he did 

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