The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.
“To Whitechapel?” Again that owlish nod. “And you found five hundred pounds there?”
Mr. Ryder struggled for words.
“S‑she did,” he corrected his questioner. “Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside—always outside.”
“Would you know your way there?”
“I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings—”
Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward.
The cool air revived Mr. Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clear headed and refreshed.
“Say, boy, where are we?” he demanded.
“Whitechapel,” said Tommy crisply. “Is this where you came with Mrs. Laidlaw tonight?”
“It looks kinder familiar,” admitted Mr. Ryder looking round. “Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it—that street there.”
Tommy turned off obediently.
Mr. Ryder issued directions.
“That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful? Yes, past the pub at the corner—sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what’s the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?”