Raffles
come in again. "Say it slowly—andante—rallentando."
Thank Italy for the stage instructions in the songs one used to murder! The fellow actually understood.
"Una—quistione—di—vita."
"Or mors, eh?" I shouted, and up went the trap-door over our heads.
"Avanti, avanti, avanti!" cried the Italian, turning up his one-eyed face.
"Hell-to-leather," I translated, "and double fare if you do it by twelve o'clock."
But in the streets of London how is one to know the time? In the Earl's Court Road it had not been half-past, and at Barker's in High Street it was but a minute later. A long half-mile a minute, that was going like the wind, and indeed we had done much of it at a gallop. But the next hundred yards took us five minutes by the next clock, and which was one to believe? I fell back upon my own old watch (it was my own), which made it eighteen minutes to the hour as we swung across the Serpentine bridge, and by the quarter we were in the Bayswater Road—not up for once.
"Presto, presto," my pale guide murmured "Affretatevi—avanti!"
"Ten bob if you do it," I cried through the
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