“Mist Wrayburn? Drection! Fifteen shillings!”
After carefully reading the dingy scrap of paper handed to him, and as carefully tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, Eugene tells out the money; beginning incautiously by telling the first shilling into Mr. Dolls’s hand, which instantly jerks it out of window; and ending by telling the fifteen shillings on the seat.
“Give him a ride back to Charing Cross, sharp boy, and there get rid of him.”
Returning to the dining-room, and pausing for an instant behind the screen at the door, Eugene overhears, above the hum and clatter, the fair Tippins saying: “I am dying to ask him what he was called out for!”
“Are you?” mutters Eugene, “then perhaps if you can’t ask him, you’ll die. So I’ll be a benefactor to society, and go. A stroll and a cigar, and I can think this over. Think this over.” Thus, with a thoughtful face, he finds his hat and cloak, unseen of the Analytical, and goes his way.