Then, at last, Charing Cross; the endless wait for the luggage and the final crowning disenchantment--no taxis!--due to "the strike."

After a dismal half hour a "runner" returned with a four wheeler and they both got in, hampered by baggage, neither of them in the best of tempers.

Mario was plainly aghast. "This--London?" he seemed to say.

"Yes--confound it!" thought McTaggart. He began to wish he had stayed abroad.

They crawled along, past Trafalgar Square and its dripping lions, past Hampton's, then, before the block of carriages outside the Carlton, swerved to the right.

Half way up the Haymarket hill McTaggart thrust his head out and shouted.

"Hi! Cabby--stop a minute." His face brightened as he spoke. He opened the door and splashed across the muddy pavement into a shop with a quaint old fashioned bow-window and asked for a box of cigarettes.

"Good evening, sir." The man smiled across the counter with an air of pleased recognition. "We haven't seen you lately, sir." Here was his first welcome home.

"I've been abroad for eighteen months. I'll take a cigarette now." He lighted it with an English match, free from sulphur, and picked up the box.

"You can put it down to the old address." He drew in the fragrant smoke with joy. "Good-night--I'll take these matches." His hand closed on them lovingly. He retraced his steps and dived once more into the stuffy, waiting cab.

"Well--that's one thing you can't beat--our baccy," he said to himself as they jolted round against the curb into the full glare of the Circus.

The wet streets mirrored back the thousand lights from above ...

McTaggart felt, suddenly, something grip him by the throat.

_London_! The magic of the word rushed up like a warm tide, round his heart, into his head.

"Good old London!"--he caught his breath.

"Mario!"--he touched the man. "Look out, quick! it's Piccadilly."

A burly policeman waved them on.

"Now, then--Hurry up!--four-wheeler."

Dodging like a human eel between the buses, a ragged boy slipped past and paused at the window, his shrill voice raised in a cry:

"Star!--'h _Ev'ning News_--Speshul! 'Ere you are, sir--h'all the winners..." jerked the paper into the cab, and was off, clutching McTaggart's penny.

Like a silver ribbon streaked with light, Piccadilly stretched ahead, buses skidding, and near at hand rang the gay tootle of a horn.

Then, into the congested s.p.a.ce, rattling harness, clanking bits, a private coach, with four bays, wet and shining, splashed with froth, picked its way like a dainty dame, disdainful of the lesser traffic.

Mario's dark face brightened. He loved horses and knew their points.

This was a picture after his heart, dissipating his sense of gloom.

For he could not see with McTaggart's eyes. At his master's quick, impulsive cry, he had peered out eagerly, pleased by the word "Piccadilly" with its familiar foreign ring.

He saw a small open s.p.a.ce, between a square and a circle, with shops and lights and a feeble statue--like a lost infant--in the centre.

He stared at it with inward contempt.

"Not half as fine," he said to himself, "as the fountain in our Sienese palace! And as for the rest of the 'piazza' ... why, there isn't a single public building--not even a decent Church! And the rain ... Is this the English summer? No wonder it's a cold race!"

He looked covertly at his master, amazed by his obvious touch of excitement.

For McTaggart was taking a deep breath of the foggy air that reeked with petrol.

"It's good to be back again," he thought; "I wonder if Bethune will be there? I sent him a wire, but he's such a beggar for work, one never knows. By Jove, I must see about a car--useful during the present strike..." He peered out at the Berkeley steps where a lady in evening dress, her light wrap drawn about her, filmy skirts wound close, crossed, dainty, over the pavement beside her attendant cavalier.

They turned into a side street, splashing and lumbering along, until, at last, they halted before the old familiar, narrow house.

The door was open. McTaggart ran up the steep stairs like a boy.

"Hullo! Mrs. Frost--how are you? Yes, I'm back. Rather late. Hope you got my letter all right?"

"Yessir. Your rooms are ready." The sour faced woman was actually smiling.

"My man's below--but he can't speak English--Will you see to him and pay the cab? _Hullo_! there you are, old man."

He was shaking hands wildly with Bethune.

"Steady on--what a grip! Confound you, you've broken my wrist..."

Bethune's honest face was beaming. He dealt him a playful blow on the chest.

"Hard as a rock!--you do look fit. I prepared to receive a languid foreigner. Come inside, Monsieur le Marquis..."

"Oh--shut up! You ... dear old fool!"

McTaggart glanced around at his rooms, the worn carpet and furniture that had seen service in College days--each scratch and dent a memory.

Above the gla.s.s, still littered with cards and photographs, there hung an oar and underneath, on either side, stood a pair of battered silver cups.

He drew a deep sigh of content.

"Get me a drink--there's a dear chap! Hullo--that window's still smashed. What a rag it was! d'you remember that night?" For the topmost pane of gla.s.s was cracked from side to side beneath the blind.

"Let's look at you"--he took the gla.s.s that Bethune filled for him and drank. "That's good. Why!--the 'Round Man's' growing a figure..."

Bethune scowled.

"Shut up! I got in whiskey--thought you'd want it. Here's luck----"

he tossed it off--"What are you going to do about dinner? It's getting pretty late, you know."

"Yes--we had a rotten crossing--the boat an hour over time. Have you dined yourself--no?--that's right. I thought we'd go down to Simpson's. I feel like a good cut off the joint..."

Bethune laughed. "The ill.u.s.trious Marquis is tired of his native macaroni?"

"A bottle of beer--and some Welsh rabbit"--the other ran on, ignoring the taunt. "I'm fed up with Chianti."