Arthur listened, tapping his fingertips lightly on the edge of the carriage window, as if doubting whether such speed was truly achievable: "Eleven miles per hour?"
Whickriff laughed heartily, "It's not just you; even us coach drivers wouldn't believe that Stevenson could really reach such speeds unless we saw it with our own eyes. He's a legend in the coaching business, just like you are at Scotland Yard."
Arthur turned his face aside, giving a self-deprecating smile, "If Mr. Stevenson heard you placing me in the same category as him, he might not take it as a compliment."
The carriage was slowly moving along Grosvenor Square at this moment, the morning mist casting a faint white glow on the iron railings.
