"Champagne," replied Marton. "Oh, I say, dear boy," seeing his companion with a small glass full of brandy, "that looks bad at this hour! Hey--you haven't---- "No, I haven't," interrupted Ellersby impatiently, "I'm only taking this to-night because I don't feel up to the mark." Marton said no more, but after parting with his companion went back to the ball-room, and meeting a friend, confided to him that poor Ellersby was going to the dogs through drink. "Brandy neat, dear boy, hey!" said the old reprobate. "Bad habits these young fellows pick up abroad, hey! look used up, by Jove! Gal in it, dear boy, hey!--oh, shocking!" So The Town-crier evidently did not intend to give the returned wanderer a good character. Ellersby was now tired of the ball, so bade good-night to his hostess, who was a queer, thin little woman, wearing a wig, a low-cut dress, and many jewels, giving one the general impression that she was mostly bones and diamonds. After taking leave of this _bizarre_ figure Ellersby put on his coat and went outside into the street, where he stood for a few moments, undecided whether to take a cab to his hotel or to walk. The fog was very thick, and the gas-lamps shone through it like dull yellow stars, while the chill breezes of the night seemed to penetrate the body of the young man, accustomed as he had been of late to tropical climates. In spite of the apparent discomforts offered by a walk at such a time, Ellersby determined to risk it, thinking it would give him a certain amount of amusement, akin somewhat to the unravelling of a puzzle, to find his way through the fog to Jermyn Street. Smiling at the oddity of the idea of finding pleasure in a cold walk on a foggy night, he lighted a cigar and, buttoning up his coat, took his way down Park Lane towards Piccadilly. There is a strange feeling in the complete isolation one experiences in fog-land--the thick yellow mist hiding everything under its jealous veil until the pedestrian finds himself adrift as it were on a lonely sea, and though on every side he is environed by millions of human beings, yet the fog creates for the moment a solitude as in those enchanted cities of the Arabian Nights. Ellersby managed to find his way to Piccadilly, and was soon swinging along the pavement at a good round pace. Every now and then ragged figures with sinister faces would loom suddenly out of the fog on the watch for unwary wanderers, but the nomadic life of Ellersby having wonderfully sharpened his faculties, he was always on his guard against the evil advances of these night-birds. Occasionally he could hear a cab drive slowly past, the driver cautiously steering his horse down the familiar street, which as if by magic had suddenly assumed an unreal appearance, transforming Piccadilly into a vague immensity resembling the Steppes of Russia.