A red banner was staggering up Northumberland Avenue, and he caught a
glimpse of a fat man in the midst of the lean ones.

"Oh, dash those fellows, they give me the hump," he growled, and he
turned his back on them a second time. But no military pomp or startled
horses offered new adventure that day. He wandered about the streets,
ate a slow luncheon, counted his money, seventeen shillings all told,
went into the British Museum, and dawdled through its galleries until
he was turned out. Then he bought a newspaper, drank some tea, and
examined the shipping advertisements.

His mind was fixed on South Africa. Somehow, it never occurred to him
that the fur-clothed Baron might find him suitable employment.
Nevertheless, he went to 118, Queen's Gate, at seven o'clock. The
footman who opened the door, seemed to be expecting him.

"Mr. King?" said the man.

This struck Royson as distinctly amusing.

"Something like that," he answered, but the footman had the face of a
waxen image.

"This way, Mr. King."

And Royson followed him up a wide staircase, marveling at the aptness
of the name.