Accordingly he entered and registered under the modest name of John Tidd. To the little old lady who wrote it down in a small laundry book devoted to the purpose, he said he was probably going abroad and later might send a request to forward correspondence. It was a dignified and pleasant transaction although he was conscious of a feeling that he would have created a more agreeable impression had he retained his necktie. Coming out of the shop he fell into line with the tide of city workers moving southward to the underground station. These were the nobility of commerce who picked up the reins of office at nine forty-five--persons of substance in no way to be confused with the eight-thirty worker. It was an honourable association to walk down the Earl's Court Road in such company. Richard swung along at an even gait with an important looking individual in a hard felt hat to the right of him and a stout gentleman with a King Edward beard to the left. The three entered Earl's Court Station abreast and approached the barrier, where Richard stepped aside and let them pass through. Leaning against the grill gates was a man reading a folded copy of the _Daily Sketch_. He looked at Richard for an instant, then looked again searchingly. The repeated action attracted Richard's notice and their eyes met. "Hardly worth while, is it?" said the man. "I beg your pardon," Richard returned. "Oh, that's quite all right--but I really wouldn't bother with it." He pointed at the opening of Richard's waistcoat and smiled. "That's rather a sound notion--no tie--distracts the eye from looking too keenly at the face. You nearly passed me." "To be perfectly frank," Richard answered, "I shouldn't have bought crepe if I had." The man laughed. "Getting pretty sick of it, aren't you?" he queried. A sure conviction possessed Richard that he was in the presence of a lunatic. "On the contrary," he replied, "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself." "Well, well, there's no accounting for tastes. But I should have thought you'd have had enough of railway stations. Better go home and stay there." Richard shook his head sympathetically. "Try taking a little more soda in it," he suggested. "You'd be a different man inside a week. So long." The watcher by the gate was smiling pleasantly to himself as Richard turned away. It was nearly one o'clock when his wanderings brought him back to the neighbourhood of Piccadilly. He had spent the intervening hours, with little enough success, at the labour bureau in Westminster. From there he had walked across the Mall and found an empty bench under the trees in Green Park looking up Park Lane. He had hardly seated himself when he saw a man come out of a big doorway opposite and hurry eastward in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Even at the distance Richard had no difficulty in recognising the diner who overnight had nodded to him at the Berkeley.