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