Pip complied, with a satisfactory thoroughness that elicited a humorous expostulation from the only porter, who was passing by. "Good-bye!" he said. "You'll be all right when you get to King's Cross." Which cryptic remark was the last he ever addressed to the Principal Boy, for the train glided out of the station, and he never saw her again. * * * * * Before leaving the station Pip despatched the following telegram:-- _Lister, Crown Theatre, Strand, London._ Arriving King's Cross 7.30. Can you meet me? Want help badly. LOTTIE. The following morning, having discarded his chauffeur's attire and departed from Broadoak Manor, after listening to an eloquent and most enjoyable valedictory address from its tenant, Pip returned to London. At the end of a highly satisfactory interview with the Gresleys he turned his steps in the direction of the Oxford and Cambridge Club, which he had not entered for three years. He made himself known to those in authority, and announced that he had now returned from "abroad." He then asked if there was any letter for "Armstrong," which, he explained rather lamely, had been sent him under that name, "by mistake." Yes, there was a note left by a messenger that afternoon. He opened it. It contained a single line-- All's well; and we thank you--_both_ of us! LOTTIE LISTER. BOOK THREE THE JOURNEY'S END CHAPTER X AN ANCIENT GAME I SOMEWHERE on the east coast of Scotland lie the famous Links of Eric. The district has not changed much, to all seeming, during the last thousand years--or ten thousand, for that matter. Then, as now, the links were a sandy waste, a wilderness of whin, sand, and bent, the home of countless scuttling rabbits and plaintive peewits. Later, perhaps, when William the Conqueror was creating a disturbance in the southern parts of remote England, a tiny fishing town began to grow up round the little harbour reluctantly yielded by the tall red cliffs to the eternal industry of the ocean, and the adjoining strip of low-lying sand-dunes acquired the title that it now bears, derived, it is said, from the name of the Norse king who once landed on this, the only piece of accessible shore for miles, and was there slain, after a bloody battle with the neighbouring lord and his retainers. The town itself will have none of these barbaric titles, but exists smugly and contentedly as Port Allan.