Know 'im agin?
Ra--ther.

Eyes like gimlets, 'e 'ad." The barrister regained the seclusion of the hansom.
"St John's Mansions, Kensington," he said to the driver, and then he curled up on the seat in the most uncomfortable attitude permitted by the construction of the vehicle.
On nearing his destination he stopped the cab at a convenient corner.
"I want you to wait here for my return," he told the driver.
"How long will you be, sir ?" "Not more than fifteen minutes." "I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed." Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker.
Brett glanced around.

In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what the agents call "a good pull-up trade." He pointed to it.
"I think," he said, "if you wait there it will be more comfortable for you and equally good for the horse." The cabby pocketed an interim tip with a grin.
"I've struck it rich to-day," he murmured, as he disappeared through a swing door bearing the legend, "Tap," in huge letters.
Meanwhile, Brett sauntered past St.John's Mansions.

Across the road a man was leaning against the railings of a large garden, being deeply immersed in the columns of a sporting paper.
The barrister caught his eye and walked on.

A minute later Mr.Winter overtook him.
"Not a move here all day," he said in disgust, "except Mrs.Jiro's appearance with the perambulator.