where the cabs stood in a long row, and spoke to the driver of the
one at the head of the rank. In a moment the motor was started,
and they were off.

The cab had a good engine, and it made good time. But after a
little while Harry noticed with some curiosity that the route they
were taking was not the most direct one. He rapped on the window
glass and spoke to the driver about it.

"Got to go round, sir," the man explained. "Roads are all torn up
the straight way, sir. Won't take much longer, sir."

Harry accepted the explanation. Indeed, it seemed reasonable
enough. But some sixth sense warned him to keep his eyes open.
And at last he decided that there could be no excuse for the way
the cab was proceeding. It seemed to him that they were going
miles out of the way, and decidedly in the wrong direction. He
did not know London as well as a boy who had lived there all his
life would have done. But his scout training had given him a
remarkable ability to keep his bearings. And it needed no special
knowledge to realize that the sun was on the wrong side of the cab
for a course that was even moderately straight for Ealing.

They had swung well around, as a matter of fact, into a
northwestern suburban section, and once he had seen a maze of
railway tracks that meant, he was almost sure that they were
passing near Willisden Junction. Only a few houses appeared in
the section through which the cab was now racing and pavements
were not frequent. He spoke to Dick: in a whisper.