thumbs and wiped them on her dress.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Across Waterloo Bridge," said I.

"What to do?"

"To dispose of you somehow," I replied, grimly. "But how, I
haven't a notion. There's a Home for Lost Dogs and a Home for
Stray Cats, and a Lost Property Office at Scotland Yard, but as
you are neither a dog nor a cat nor an umbrella, these refuges
are unavailable."

The cab reached the Strand.

"East or west, sir?" inquired the driver.

"West," said I, at random.

We drove down the Strand at a leisurely pace. I passed through a
phase of agonised thought. By my side was a helpless, homeless,
friendless, penniless young woman, as beautiful as a goddess and
as empty-minded as a baby. What in the world could I do with
her? I looked at her in despair. She met my glance with a
contented smile; just as if we were old acquaintances and I were
taking her out to dinner. The unfamiliar roar and bustle of
London impressed her no more than it would have impressed a
little dog who had found a kind master.