not come--it's very good of you all the same."

"Nonsense," retorted the other. "My mother will be
very glad indeed to see you. There is no one else
there--unless, perhaps, my sister has some friend down.
We shall make a purely family party."

Thorpe hesitated for only a further second. "All right.
Charing Cross, 5:15," he said then, with the grave brevity
of one who announces a momentous decision.

He stood still, looking into the fire, for a few moments
after his companion had gone. Then, going to a closet
at the end of the room, he brought forth his coat and hat;
something prompted him to hold them up, and scrutinize
them under the bright light of the electric globe. He put
them on, then, with a smile, half-scornful, half-amused,
playing in his beard.

The touch of a button precipitated darkness upon the Board Room.
He made his way out, and downstairs to the street.
It was a rainy, windy October night, sloppy underfoot,
dripping overhead. At the corner before him, a cabman,
motionless under his unshapely covered hat and glistening
rubber cape, sat perched aloft on his seat, apparently asleep.
Thorpe hailed him, with a peremptory tone, and gave the
brusque order, "Strand!" as he clambered into the hansom.