'
'The Gaiety bar is closed,' said the man.
'Then home,' said Michael, with the same cheerfulness.
'Where to, sir?'
'I don't remember, I'm sure,' said Michael, entering the vehicle, 'drive
Shcotlan' Yard and ask.'
'But you'll have a card,' said the man, through the little aperture in
the top, 'give me your card-case.'
'What imagi--imagination in a cabby!' cried the lawyer, producing his
card-case, and handing it to the driver.
The man read it by the light of the lamp. 'Mr Michael Finsbury, 233
King's Road, Chelsea. Is that it, sir?'
'Right you are,' cried Michael, 'drive there if you can see way.'
CHAPTER X. Gideon Forsyth and the Broadwood Grand
The reader has perhaps read that remarkable work, Who Put Back the
Clock? by E. H. B., which appeared for several days upon the railway
bookstalls and then vanished entirely from the face of the earth.
Whether eating Time makes the chief of his diet out of old editions;
whether Providence has passed a special enactment on behalf of authors;
or whether these last have taken the law into their own hand, bound
themselves into a dark conspiracy with a password, which I would
die rather than reveal, and night after night sally forth under some
vigorous leader, such as Mr James Payn or Mr Walter Besant, on their
task of secret spoliation--certain it is, at least, that the old
editions pass, giving place to new.
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