“Well, it’s the other Mr. Polton what I want,” said the cabman, with his eyes still riveted on the olfactory prominence.

“There isn’t any other Mr. Polton,” our subordinate replied irritably. “I am the⁠—er⁠—person who spoke to you in the shelter.”

“Are you though?” said the manifestly incredulous cabby. “I shouldn’t have thought it; but you ought to know. What do you want me to do?”

“We want you,” said Thorndyke, “to answer one or two questions. And the first one is, Are you a teetotaller?”

The question being illustrated by the production of a decanter, the cabman’s dignity relaxed somewhat.

“I ain’t bigoted,” said he.

“Then sit down and mix yourself a glass of grog. Soda or plain water?”