Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over
London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.

"Never mind," said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation.
"You'll have money in your pocket soon."

Mr. Davis's face brightened. "And a watch and chain too," he said.

"And smoke your cigar of a Sunday," said Mr. Wotton, "and have a easy-
chair and a glass for a friend."

Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty
years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to
easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it
about. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.

At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following
the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but
bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.

A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen
eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road of
trim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-
curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word "Blairgowrie"
inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for a
moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton,
knocked at the door.

He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap and