Peace and Raynton walked on together for some little distance—they were chums or cronies who understood each other pretty well; a sort of friendship, if it could be dignified by such a term, had sprung up between them.
“Which way are you going?” said Raynton—“eastwards or westwards?”
“Westwards,” returned Peace.
“Ah, just so, the very opposite direction to the one I am about to take. Well, old man, we’ve borne our ’prisonment together, and have been on pretty good terms, all things considered. I suppose you are like myself, not quite certain as to your future course of action, but I suppose you don’t mean to turn me up—cast me on one side now that you are a free man?”
“Certainly not, Raynton, far from that.”
“Well, then, before we part I’ll just give you my address, or rather one where a letter will be sure to reach me. If you do write, be careful how you word it, for I’ve a wife and two kids to look after, and it’s as well to keep the missus in the dark as to where we first met.”
“All right,” returned Peace, “you needn’t be afraid of my saying anything—that is, anything you don’t want me to say.”
Raynton wrote down the address, which he handed to his companion, after which they repaired to another house, where they had a parting glass, and wishing each other better luck for the future they separated.
Peace, as we have already seen, had ample means at his command for his immediate wants.
He now began to reflect a little, that he might determine how to shape his course.