The grey mists of evening were descending over the mighty city as Charles Peace threaded his way through the streets in the direction of High Holborn. As he approached Middle-row he saw at a few yards’ distance a face which had been familiar enough to him in his earlier days.
He started involuntarily, for the face that attracted his attention was so strangely altered that at first he was in doubt as to its being the one which had been so familiar to him.
He came to a sudden halt, being in doubt as to his course of action.
“Charles Peace!” exclaimed a man, coming forward and offering his hand. “Speak, man. You do not fear or mistrust me—me, your old chum, Tom Gatliffe.”
“So it is you, then?” ejaculated Peace.
“Why of course it is—didn’t you know me?”
“Yes, oh dear yes, of course I did, but we have not met for so long a time and—well, to say the truth, you are greatly altered. You’ve grown a beard or something, which has quite changed your appearance, but—but—Tom I’m jolly glad to meet you.”
“Ah!” murmured the young engineer, “I am indeed altered—not the same Tom Gatliffe you knew years ago; but I have been wanting to see you for a long time, and this meeting is very opportune. Still following your old business?”
“Yes! I am not doing much just now—so thought I would run up to London for a day or two.”
“Ah, I have got a lot to tell you, but we can’t talk in the street upon private matters. Where can we have a glass together?”