“Oh no,” I said.  “He’s addressing a few words to the crowd now.”  Then seeing Joyce standing in the doorway I hurried up the steps.

“Joyce dear,” I said, “put on a hat and come as quick as you can.  It’s quite all right, but we want to get out of this before there’s any bother.”

She nodded, and disappeared into the flat, while I strolled back to the taxi.

It was evident from a movement among the spectators that George was making his way towards the steps.  Some of them who had come running up kept turning round and casting curious glances at us, but so far no one had attempted to interfere.  It was not until Joyce was just coming out of the flats, that a man detached himself from the crowd and started across the road.  He was a big, fat, greasy person in a bowler hat.

“Here,” he said.  “You wait a bit.  What d’ye mean by throwing that pore man in the river?”

I opened the door of the taxi and Joyce jumped in.

“What’s it got to do with you, darling?” asked Tommy affably.

“What’s it got to do with me!” he repeated indignantly.  “Why, it’s just the mercy o’ Gawd—­”

“Come on, Tommy,” I said.

Tommy took a step forward, but the man clutched him by the arm.

“No yer don’t,” he said, “not till ...  Ow!”

With a sudden vigorous shove Tommy sent him staggering back across the pavement, and the next moment we had both jumped into the taxi and banged the door.

“Right away,” I called out.

I think there was some momentary doubt amongst the other spectators whether they oughtn’t to interfere, but before they could make up their minds our sympathetic driver had thrust in his clutch, and we were spinning away down the Embankment.

Joyce, who was sitting next to me, slipped her hand into mine.

“I love to see you both laughing,” she said, “but I should like to know what’s happened!  At present I feel as if I was acting in a cinematograph play.”

We told her—­told her in quick, eager sentences of how the danger and mystery that had hung over us so for long had at last been scattered and destroyed.  It was a broken, inadequate sort of narrative, jerked out as we bumped over crossings and pulled by behind buses, but I fancy from the light in her eyes and the pressure of her hand that Joyce was quite contented.

“It’s—­it’s like waking up after some horrible dream,” she said, “and suddenly rinding that everything’s all right.  Oh, I knew it would be in the end—­I knew it the whole time—­but I never dreamed it would happen all at once like this.”

“Neither did George,” chuckled Tommy.  “How long had he been with you, Joyce?”

“About twenty minutes,” she said.  “He came straight to me from Harrod’s, where he’s spent most of the day buying stores for his yacht.  He had quite made up his mind I was coming with him.  I don’t believe he’s got the faintest idea about what’s happened this morning.”