vista of thought."

"Don't run into anything," said Evan, immovably.

"There's something in that view of yours, too," said Turnbull,
and shut down the trap.

They sped on through shining streets that shot by them like
arrows. Mr. Turnbull had evidently a great deal of unused
practical talent which was unrolling itself in this ridiculous
adventure. They had got away with such stunning promptitude that
the police chase had in all probability not even properly begun.
But in case it had, the amateur cabman chose his dizzy course
through London with a strange dexterity. He did not do what would
have first occurred to any ordinary outsider desiring to destroy
his tracks. He did not cut into by-ways or twist his way through
mean streets. His amateur common sense told him that it was
precisely the poor street, the side street, that would be likely
to remember and report the passing of a hansom cab, like the
passing of a royal procession. He kept chiefly to the great
roads, so full of hansoms that a wilder pair than they might
easily have passed in the press. In one of the quieter streets
Evan put on his boots.

Towards the top of Albany Street the singular cabman again opened
the trap.

"Mr. MacIan," he said, "I understand that we have now definitely
settled that in the conventional language honour is not
satisfied. Our action must at least go further than it has gone