“Can I not come with you?” she asked suddenly; “why should not I go to London with you this afternoon?” “No, darling, it is best not. I shall have to leave you at times, sweetheart, and we must both get accustomed to the thing. Now I must say farewell. I’ll soon be back. Adieu, darling, adieu.” Rowton ran downstairs, and Nancy watched him from the window of the dressing-room as he drove rapidly away. He arrived at Pitstow Station a moment before the train was starting. He saw Scrivener pacing up and down the platform, but neither man, by word or glance, recognised the other. Rowton travelled first-class to town—Scrivener third. In due course they arrived at King’s Cross, when both men again went their several ways. Rowton drove to a small hotel in the neighbourhood of the Strand. It was a comfortable, cleanly place, but very unpretending and plain. He ordered something to eat and then went out into the Strand. He amused himself buying one or two trifles for Nancy. He then went to his club, the Shelton, where he smoked a cigar, and chatted with two or three men, who were all delighted to see him again. He invited several of his friends to stay at Rowton Heights, and altogether was much cheered by his time at the club. “Lucky for you, Rowton, to be back in the old place once more,” said Charlie Danvers, a gay young Guardsman. Rowton had been at school with him. “Wish I could clear off all my mortgages, and come in for my own,” said another man, whose name was Halliburton. “I have heard a lot of your diggings, Rowton,” said a third; “the best place in the county; shall be delighted to accept your invitation. What time did you say?” “I’ll write and fix a date,” said Rowton after a pause. “My wife and I mean to give a ball, but we must wait a little until the county magnates have time to call. I’ll want as many of you good fellows as will honour me to come down for the great occasion. I mean to do something with the hunting next season, but it is rather late to think much of that this year. The ball, however, is a different matter. You’ll all come for the ball, won’t you?” Three or four promised, and Rowton made notes in his engagement book. It was about ten o’clock when he left the club. He hailed a hansom then, and drove straight back to the quiet little hotel off the Strand. When he got there he went upstairs, changed his hat for a round one of somewhat shabby make, put on a light overcoat and came down again. “Going out, sir?” said the landlord, who was standing in the hall. “Yes, for a bit,” said Rowton. The man noticed the change of dress and made no remark—many of his guests were out all night; he supplied them with latchkeys, and never sat up for them. “A latchkey, sir?” he said now to Rowton. “Thanks,” replied the owner of Rowton Heights in a nonchalant tone. He slipped the key into his pocket, and the next moment found himself again in the Strand.