All this aimless chatter made Bernard rather impatient. "I must cut along," he said; "it's rather foggy and it will take me a long time to fetch my barracks. No, thank you, Mark, I don't want anything to drink. Give me a couple of those cigarettes, Conniston. Good night." "Won't you stop the night?" said Durham, hospitably. "Conniston is staying." "He's on furlough and I'm not," said Bernard, who was now putting on his slouch hat in the hall. "Good night, Conniston. Good night, Durham." "You'll think over what I told you," said the lawyer, opening the door himself and looking outside. "I say, what a fog! Stop here, Bernard." "No! No! Thanks all the same." Gore stepped out into the white mist, buttoning his coat. "Give me a light. There! Go back and yarn with Dick, I'll come and see you again. As to Sir Simon--" "What about him?" "I'll think over what you said. If possible I'll go down and stop at Cove Castle, and see Sir Simon at night. By the way, what's the time, Durham?" The lawyer was about to pull out his watch when Conniston appeared at the end of the hall in high spirits. "My dear friend," he said in a dramatic manner, "it is the twenty-third of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and--" "Bosh!" interrupted Bernard. "The time, Mark?" "Just ten o'clock. Good night!" "Good night, and keep that wild creature in order. Conniston, I'll look you up to-morrow." It was indeed a foggy night. Bernard felt as though he were passing through wool, and the air was bitterly cold. However, he thrust his hands into his pockets and smoked bravely as he felt his way down the hill. Hardly had he issued from the gate when he felt someone clutch his coat. Brave as Gore was he started, for in this fog he might meet with all manner of unpleasant adventures. However, being immediately under a lamp, he saw that a small boy was holding on to him. A pretty lad he looked, though clothed in rags and miserable with the cold. In one hand he held a tray of matches and in the other a piece of bread. His feet were bare and his rags scarcely covered him. In a child-like, innocent manner he looked up into the face of the tall soldier. "Well, boy," said Bernard, feeling for sixpence, "Are you wanting to get home?" "Ain't got no home," said the boy, hoarsely. "I sleeps in a barrel, I does, when 'ard up. It's you as the lady wants to see." "The lady!" Bernard looked down at the imp. "What do you mean?" "It's this way, my lord," said the boy, looking like a cherub of innocence. "The lady, she says to me that in this street you'll see, before twelve, a soldier in yeller clothes. Tell him to foller to the Red Winder." "What's that?" asked Gore, sharply, and quite taken aback by hearing these words on the lips of this ragged brat. "Where did you see the lady, boy?" "Down Kensington way," said the boy jerking his head over his shoulder. "She says, 'Tell him to foller to the Red Winder.' Come along!" and he darted off in the fog.