At Charing Cross, I heard a cry which sent the blood rushing to my head. I felt naked and almost ashamed. It was as if every eye in London was on me. Hastily and doubtfully, I bought an evening paper, drew Sally and Molly aside, and sought out this latest and fleetest example of modern journalism.
It ran as follows:—
TWENTY-ONE OLD MEN MADE YOUNG
A STRANGE VOYAGE
MONKEY-GLAND QUEST
We have just received exclusive news of one of the most startling voyages of discovery ever made by man.
Over eighteen months ago there set sail from England between eighty and ninety old men in search of gorilla glands in Western Africa. . . .
"We'll read it on the way back to Richmond," I said hurriedly. "This is treachery. In spite of their promises, one of the old men has given us away. Let's get a taxi before someone recognizes us."
Shall I ever forget that night?
We arrived home at ten o'clock, thrust our way through a little knot of enterprising journalists who had discovered my address, hammered at the door, and tumbled in on a half-prostrate Nanny.
"Go away!" I cried to the swarm of news-seekers, and I slammed the door in their faces, took off my hat and gripped Nanny by the hand.
She was dumfounded at the change in Sally, but as soon as she had recovered her faculties, commenced ministering to us and mothering us as of old.
Never was home more welcome to any man than it was to me that night. Nanny unearthed Molly's best silk pajamas, lent Sally one of her own nightdresses, prepared our rooms, and even coaxed us to eat and drink. Then she sat and watched us, too full of joy to speak.
Bed, at last—cool and sweet and restful. Then sleep—and finally the morrow.