I turned away to pay off my taxi, the driver of which was very
cantankerous and abusive over his fare. As I came back to
Professor Summerlee, he was having a furious altercation with
the men who had carried down the oxygen, his little white goat's
beard jerking with indignation. One of the fellows called him,
I remember, "a silly old bleached cockatoo," which so enraged
his chauffeur that he bounded out of his seat to take the part
of his insulted master, and it was all we could do to prevent a
riot in the street.

These little things may seem trivial to relate, and passed as
mere incidents at the time. It is only now, as I look back, that
I see their relation to the whole story which I have to unfold.

The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, have been a novice or
else have lost his nerve in this disturbance, for he drove
vilely on the way to the station. Twice we nearly had collisions
with other equally erratic vehicles, and I remember remarking
to Summerlee that the standard of driving in London
had very much declined. Once we brushed the very edge of a
great crowd which was watching a fight at the corner of the
Mall. The people, who were much excited, raised cries of
anger at the clumsy driving, and one fellow sprang upon the
step and waved a stick above our heads. I pushed him off, but
we were glad when we had got clear of them and safe out of
the park. These little events, coming one after the other,
left me very jangled in my nerves, and I could see from my
companion's petulant manner that his own patience had got to
a low ebb.