I meant to
lead my follower a fine dance, starting with the innocent intention of
giving myself and my belongings an airing. It was a brilliant day, the
Southern sun struck with semi-tropical fervour, the air was soft and
sleepy in the oppressive heat. I brought out the baby undeterred, and
installed it, slumbering peacefully, on Philpotts's knees in the seat
before me, and lying back with ostentatious indifference, drove off
in full view of the detective.
I shot one glance back as I turned down the long slope leading to the
Grace-a-Dieu Street, and was pleased to see that he had jumped into a
_fiacre_ and was coming on after me. He should have his fill of
driving. I led him up and down and round and round, street after
street, all along the great Cannebiere and out towards the Reserve,
where Roubion's Restaurant offers his celebrated fish stew,
_bouillabaise_, to all comers.
Then when Mr. Tiler's weedy horse began to show signs of distress, for
my sturdy pair had outpaced him sorely, I relented and reentered the
town, meaning to make a long halt at the office of Messrs.
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