But he returned to town. He tracked Cosgrave to his former
lodging-house, where a stout, heavily-breathing landlady showed every
readiness to be communicative and helpful.

"Yes, sir--he's here again--I think he was expecting you--mentioned your
name--he's out now and won't be back till late--dinner at the Carlton, he
said. If you'd like to leave a note, sir----"

She led him upstairs and watched him with a fat amusement as he stood
silent and frowning on the threshold.

"It _is_ a fair mess," she admitted blandly. "I was just trying to get
things a bit together when you rang, sir. I'm to throw away all that old
stuff, he said. A reg'lar new start he's making--_and_ a lively one, I
don't think. Theatres and supper parties ever since he's been back, sir,
and right glad I've been to see it, though I don't 'old with
carryings-on, in a general way. But after them there tropiks he'd need a
change. He was that down, sir, when he first came, I didn't know what to
think."

The room might have belonged to a young dandy returned to London from the
wilds of Central Africa. It was littered with half-open boxes, new
suits, a disorderly regiment of shining, unworn boots and shoes, a pile
of ties that must have been chosen for sheer expensiveness. (Stonehouse
remembered the spotted affair with which Cosgrave had wooed Connie
Edward's approval.) The shabby suit in which Stonehouse had first met
him had been flung with the other cast-offs into a far corner. It was
all very young and reckless and jolly. One could see the owner, as he
rampaged about the room, whistling and cursing in a good-humoured haste.