"There goes part of my dinner," he said to himself. "Never mind: she needs it." And then to the astonished beggar: "Go home, my girl, with that poor little chap. It is no night for him—or you either—to be out."
Presently he came to a huge house, showing a dim light here and there in its black front. He knocked with a tremor of heart. When last he had knocked there he had stood at the threshold of new life and joy. The rain dripped from his soft hat and hung in beads of moisture on his grey moustache. It soaked unheeded into his thin overcoat.
The door was opened by an old man-servant. He peered in wonder at the shabby-looking stranger, who stepped so unquestioningly within those gloomy portals.
"Is his lordship in town?" asked the intruder. "Why, Thorndyke! It is surely Thorndyke?"
"Yes, I am Thorndyke," said the man. "But I don't think I know you, sir. Let me see."
He turned on the electric light into the front part of the hall, and brought his dim old eyes nearer to Mr. Graydon's face.
"Why, it is Master Archie!" he said quaveringly. "Master Archie after all those years! And how are you, sir? Are you well?"
"Quite well, Thorndyke. Can I see my uncle? I want very particularly to see him."
"He's none too pleasant," whispered the old man. "He has a touch of gout, and the little master's been ill. They've ordered him to Cannes."
"Indeed! I'm sorry for that. I thought he was a hearty little chap."