"'All right, master,' said he, turning his slow eyes upon me without a
trace of excitement or curiosity.
"' If I enter your coach with another gentleman, you will drive up and
down Harley Street, and take no orders from anyone but me. When I get
out, you will carry the other gentleman to Watier's Club, in Bruton
Street.'
"'All right, master,' said he again.
"So I stood outside Milord Hawkesbury's house, and you can think how
often my eyes went up to that window in the hope of seeing the candle
twinkle in it. Five minutes passed, and another five. Oh, how slowly
they crept along! It was a true October night, raw and cold, with a
white fog crawling over the wet, shining cobblestones, and blurring the
dim oil-lamps. I could not see fifty paces in either direction, but my
ears were straining, straining, to catch the rattle of hoofs or the
rumble of wheels. It is not a cheering place, monsieur, that street of
Harley, even upon a sunny day. The houses are solid and very
respectable over yonder, but there is nothing of the feminine about
them. It is a city to be inhabited by males. But on that raw night,
amid the damp and the fog, with the anxiety gnawing at my heart, it
seemed the saddest, weariest spot in the whole wide world. I paced up
and down slapping my hands to keep them warm, and still straining my
ears.
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