He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. I have always hated it. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile.
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