lumbering in the wide chimney corner before a log fire. From Ipswich
to London, and thus on to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enough
in company, for they were old companions of the road, and Colville's
unruffled good humour made him an easy comrade for travel even in days
when the idea of comfort reconciled with speed had not suggested itself
to the mind of man.

Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with him to London,
and there left awaiting further need of it, that personal baggage which
Loo had perforce left behind him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris.

They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville admitted gaily that
he had no desire to be seen.

"I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly," he said. "And there are others
who may perhaps consider themselves aggrieved."

At Colville's club, where they dined, he met more than one friend.

"Hallo!" said one who had the ruddy countenance and bluff manners of
a retired major. "Hallo! Who'd have expected to see you here? I didn't
know--I--thought--eh! dammy!"

And a hundred facetious questions gleamed from the major's eye.

"All right, my boy," answered Colville, cheerfully. "I am off to France
to-morrow morning."

The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a course of conduct
savouring of that prudence which is the better part of valour, glanced
at Loo Barebone, and waited in vain for an invitation to take a vacant
chair near at hand.

"Still in the south of France, I suppose?"

"Still in the south of France," replied Colville, turning to Barebone in
a final way, which had the effect of dismissing this inquisitive idler.

While they were at dinner another came. He was a raw-boned Scotchman,
who spoke in broken English when the waiter was absent and in perfect
French when that servitor hovered near.

"I wish I could show my face in Paris," he said, frankly, "but I can't.
Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to find favour in the eyes of the
Prince President."

"Why?" asked Colville. "What could you gain by showing in Paris a face
which I am sure has the stamp of innocence all over it?"

The Scotchman laughed curtly.

"Gain?" he answered. "Gain? I don't say I would, but I think I might be
able to turn an honest penny out of the approaching events."

"What events?"

"The Lord alone knows," replied the Scotchman, who had never set foot
in his country, but had acquired elsewhere the prudent habit of never
answering a question.