things are certain.

Now for the sequel. Mere fortune led me at four that afternoon into
Bedford Row. A note had been put into my hands at the Record Office
inviting me to call upon a client whose chambers were in that quarter,
and I complied with it directly my work was over. Now as I walked
along the Row, the boy of that morning's encounter was going into the
entry of the house in which Fowkes and Vizards have their offices. I
had just time to recognise him when the double knock announced his
errand. I stopped immediately; he delivered in a telegram and came
out. I was on the step. Whether he knew me or not he did not look his
knowledge. His eyes went through me, his smiling mouth did not smile
at me. My heart beat, I didn't know why; but I laughed and nodded. He
went his leisurely way and I watched him, this time, almost out of
sight. But while I stood so, watching, old Fowkes came bursting out of
his office, tears streaming down his face, the telegram in his hand.
"Where is he? Where is he?" This was addressed to me. I pointed the
way. Old Fowkes saw his benefactor (as I suppose him to have been)
and began to run. The lad turned round, saw him coming, waved him
away, and then--disappeared. Again he had done it; but old Fowkes, in
no way surprised, stood rooted to the pavement with his hands extended
so far toward the mystery that I could see two or three inches of bony
old wrist beyond his shirt-cuffs. After a while he turned and slowly
came back to his chambers. He seemed now not to see me; or he was
careless whether I saw him or not. As he entered the doorway he held
up the telegram, bent his head and laid a kiss upon the pink paper.

But that is by no means all. Now I come, to the Richborough story,
which all London that is as old as I am remembers. That part of
London, it may be, will not read this book; or if it does, will not