McAllister arose to his feet. His one thought now was to escape as quickly as possible. The sight of Pondel's smiling countenance filled him with unutterable disgust. Suppose the fellows at the club could see him sitting in this pursy tailor's parlor, with his scented wife, and gilded chairs—
The tailor, however, was anxious to restore the cordiality of their relations, and slopped over in his eagerness to show how kind he was to his men, and how considerate of their well-being. He took McAllister's arm familiarly as he showed him to the door.
"Yes," he added confidentially, "this is a very good locality. Only the best people live in this neighborhood. Rather a neat little property." He proffered McAllister a cigar. The clubman wanted to kick him for a miserable, dirty cad.
"Right back!" he said to the cabby, hardly replying to the tailor's good-night.
London was asleep. Even the streets through which he had driven to Kew were hushed in preparation for the sodden Sunday to come. The moon had lowered over the housetops, and St. Timothy's was in the shadow as once again he drew up in front of Pondel's.
"Back already, sir?" The bobby stepped out to meet him.
"Yes," replied McAllister wearily. "And those fellows down there are going home."
The bobby rapped on the scuttle. Once more Pedler's head protruded above the sidewalk.
"Mr. Pondel says you're to go home," said McAllister.
"The gent's been all the way to Kew for you," interjected the bobby.