A Hansom for Mr. Holmes

"Where to, sir?"
In spite of it all, I was still hoping. After all, even Mr. Holmes must have days when he goes on ordinary errands same as anybody else does. If my luck was in it would be Marylebone station or some club in Pall Mall, then back lickety-split to the park and look after Hector.
"Celandine Square," says the lilac gent. "Just off Berkeley Square."
Now he didn't need to have told me that, knowing Mayfair like I do. Small and very select Celandine Square is, place people buy houses if they find Berkeley Square itself a touch common for their liking. Nice little garden in the middle where they have parties in summer. Still, the good news was that it wasn't much more than ten minutes drive away in moderate traffic. But before I could start feeling relieved on that score, three things happened. The first was, I noticed as Mr. Holmes and the doctor got in that they both had bulges in the right pockets of their jackets that looked too heavy by a long chalk to be gents' handkerchiefs. The second was that Hector, who'd been quiet for a bit, suddenly let off a snore from under my driving seat that sounded like a flaming rhinoceros in a mud patch. They couldn't have helped hearing it and I saw Mr. Holmes raise his eyebrows. Thinking as quick as I could I said, "I'm sorry about that, sir. Somebody's been feeding the old horse too many carrots." The eyebrows went up another notch at that and thinking it over I couldn't blame him. Well, you think about the way a hansom cab's built. Driver perched up right at the back, covered carriage in front of him with the fare in it, then the footboard and shafts, then the back end of the horse. You don't have to be the greatest detective in the world to work out that you'd have feed a nag a hell of a lot of carrots for the noise to come out from under the driver's seat.