Step right this way--" "Wait!" snapped Ruthven.

"I asked you if you knew it; I didn't say I wanted to go there." The hackman in his woolly greatcoat stared at the little dapper, smooth-shaven man, who eyed him in return, coolly insolent, lighting a cigar.
"I don't want to go to the Willow Villa," said Ruthven; "I want you to drive me past it." "Sir ?" "_Past_ it.

And then turn around and drive back here.

Is that plain ?" "Yes, sir." Ruthven got into the closed body of the vehicle, rubbed the frost from the window, and peeked out.

The hackman, unhitching his lank horse, climbed to the seat, gathered the reins, and the vehicle started to the jangling accompaniment of a single battered cow-bell.
The melancholy clamour of the bell annoyed little Mr.Ruthven; he was horribly cold, too, even in his fur coat.