I––––––––
ONE EVENING IN AUTUMN, when the deformities of London were veiled in faint blue mist, and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street, drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he passed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end of the street jostled against him.
'I beg your pardon—wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!'
'Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?'
'Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can have seen you for the last five years?'
'No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you came to my place at Charlotte Street?'
'Perfectly.
