"Do you?" said Ted, with a grimace. "H'm. Why?" "Because your whole expression suggests--partridges!" "Does it? As it happens, I was thinking about a revolver." "Potting burglars, eh? About all the sport you poor devils of Cockneys will get on the First." "Look here, Hardy, this is uncanny. Where did you spring from?" "Straight from Euston this afternoon, from Queenstown yesterday morning, before that from the other side of the Rockies." "That accounts for your amazing get-up." "Yes; and, by Jove! after a year in a log-hut on the wrong side of a precipice, you're glad to get your feet on London pavement, and smell London smells again. And look there, Ted! There isn't a lovelier sight on God's earth than a well-dressed Englishwoman. Where are we going? How about that revolver?" Ted had forgotten all about it. Hardy's sane, open-air spirits had infected him so far that he had let himself be dragged at a rapid pace up the King's Road, where their progress attracted considerable attention. As Hardy strode on, with his long swinging legs, he appeared to be scattering the crowd before him. "Never mind the thing now; it'll keep. How that girl stares! Does she take us for banditti?" "Not you, you puppy, in that coat and topper. No mistaking you for anything but what you are--the sickly product of an effete civilisation. Don't be frightened, you haven't gone off in the least; you're a little pale, but prettier than you were, if anything." "I say _you_ ought to be in the bosom of your family." "I haven't got a family." "Well, what brings you here of all places in the world?" "My cousin Audrey Craven." There was no reserve about Hardy. At the name, so unexpectedly spoken, the under-world opened again for Ted, with all its Furies. They walked on for some minutes in silence, then Hardy began again-- "I called to see her. Of course she was out. Hard lines, wasn't it?" Ted forced himself to speak. "Oh yes, beastly hard." "You must have met her lately. How is she looking?" "Oh, remarkably cheerful, when I last saw her." "When was that?" Hardy asked, a little anxiously. "The day before yesterday." "Ah! She'd got my telegram then." Ted bit his lip. They were too much absorbed, he in his misery and Hardy in his joy, for either to be conscious of the other's feeling. "Old boy," said Hardy, as they turned out of the King's Road, "what have you got to do?" "Nothing." "Then come and help me to hunt up some diggings. How about Devon Street?" "I don't know; but I suppose we can look," said Ted, dismally. Hardy's spirits were beginning to pall on him. "I may as well go and look up Katherine, while I'm about it. Dear old Sis, I suppose she'll be out too." "Not she--she's too busy for that." "Not too busy to see her old playfellow, you bet your boots."