him with a mildly bewildered patience, pushing his way gently through
the crowd as through a herd of oxen.

He made no comment, and if he heard sundry whispers of "That's 'im," he
was not unduly elated. In the cab he sat bolt upright, looking as if
his tunic was too tight, as in all probability it was. The day was hot,
and after a few jerks he extracted a pocket-handkerchief from his
sleeve.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Well, I was going to Cambridge Terrace. Joan sent me a card this
morning saying that she wanted to see me," explained Tony Cornish. He
was a young man who seemed always busy. His long thin legs moved
quickly, he spoke quickly, and had a rapid glance. There was a
suggestion of superficial haste about him. For an idle man, he had
remarkably little time on his hands.

White took up his eye-glass, examined it with short-sighted
earnestness, and screwed it solemnly into his eye.

"Cambridge Terrace?" he said, and stared in front of him.

"Yes. Have you seen the Ferribys since your glorious return to
these--er--shores?" As he spoke, Cornish gave only half of his
attention. He knew so many people that Piccadilly was a work of
considerable effort, and it is difficult to bow gracefully from a
hansom cab.

"Can't say I have."