The match spluttered and went out. Spike looked around. He felt hopelessly alone. Not a pedestrian; not a light. The houses, set well back from the street, were dark, forbiddingly dark.
He saw a street-car rattle past, bound on the final run of the night for the car-sheds at East End. Then he was alone again--alone and frightened.
He felt the necessity for action. He must do something--something, but what? What was there to do?
A great fear gripped him. He was with the body. The body was in his cab. He would be arrested for the murder of the man!
Of course he knew he didn't do it. The woman had committed the murder.
Spike swore. He had almost forgotten the woman. Where was she? How had she managed to leave the taxicab? When had the man, who now lay sprawled in the cab, entered it?
He had driven straight from the Union Station to the address given by the woma