on that he was leaving Westgate at a certain time. When his
train ran in to Victoria Station, at five o'clock in the evening, he was
surprised to see the cloaked figure of his friend standing upon the grey
platform behind a line of porters.

"What, Murchison!" he said. "You here! Have you seceded from your order
that you are taking this holiday?"

They shook hands.

"No," said the Father. "It happened that I had to be in this
neighbourhood to-day, visiting a sick person. So I thought I would meet
you."

"And see if I were still a sick person, eh?"

The Professor glanced at him kindly, but with a dry little laugh.

"Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No,
I think not. You appear very well."

The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's always
thin cheeks. His keen eyes were shining with life and energy, and he
walked forward in his loose grey suit and fluttering overcoat with a
vigour that was noticeable, carrying easily in his left hand his
well-filled Gladstone bag.

The Father felt completely reassured.

"I never saw you look better," he said.

"I never was better. Have you an hour to spare?"

"Two."

"Good. I'll send my bag up by cab, and we'll walk across the Park to my
house and have a cup of tea there. What d'you say?"

"I shall enjoy it."

They walked out of the station yard, past the flower girls and newspaper
sellers towards Grosvenor Place.

"And you have had a pleasant time?" the Father said.

"Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in the
passage at Number 100, you know."

"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure."

"H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me,
Murchison."

As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his
sensation of bodily vigour.

"A weakling--no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do
yours must require an occasional holiday."

"And I required one very badly, eh?"

"You required one, I believe."

"Well, I've had it. And now we'll see."

The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde Park
Corner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people going
home from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, and
carrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, in
which lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly or
whistled shrilly as they walked.

"Until the e