"When you've dropped me in Clerkenwell I'd like you to deliver a letter for me. Would you be so kind?"

"Sorry, mate," the driver said. "I'm going home after this. I've a wife waiting for me."

Chant dug in his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet, then passed it through the window, letting it drop on the seat beside the driver.

"What's this?"

"All the money I've got. This letter has to be delivered."

"All the money you've got, eh?"

The driver picked up the wallet and flicked it open, his gaze going between its contents and the road.

"There's a lot of dosh in here."

"Have it. It's no good to me."

"Are you sick?"

"And tired," Chant said. "Take it, why don't you? Enjoy it."

"There's a Daimler been following us. Somebody you know?"

There was no purpose served by lying to the man. "Yes," Chant said. "I don't suppose you could put some distance between them and us?"

The man pocketed the wallet and jabbed his foot down on the accelerator. The cab leapt forward like a racehorse from the gate, its jockey's laugh rising above the guttural din of the engine. Whether it was the cash he was now heavy with or the challenge of outrunning a Daimler that motivated him, he put his cab through its paces, proving it more mobile than its bulk would have suggested. In under a minute they'd made two sharp lefts and a squealing right and were roaring down a back street so narrow the least miscalculation would have taken off handles, hubs, and mirrors. The mazing didn't stop there. They made another turn, and another, bringing them in a short time to South-wark Bridge. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost the Daimler. Chant might have applauded had he possessed two workable hands, but the flea's message of corruption was spreading with agonizing speed. While he still had five fingers under his command he went back to the window and dropped Estabrook's letter through, murmuring the address with a tongue that felt disfigured in his mouth.