"Mr. Ralph Duncombe, my lord."
Yorke repeated the name vacantly.
"I don't know him. I never heard of him," he said. "But it does not matter. I owe a great many persons money, and he may be one of them. Good-night," and he walked away, his head down again, his hands in his pockets.
The man looked after him with a puzzled countenance, and turned over the sovereign Yorke had given him.
"One of the right sort he is," he muttered. "But ain't he down on his luck? I've seen a good many of 'em in Queer Street, but none of 'em looked half so bad as that. If I was his friends I should take his razors away!"
Yorke reached Bury Street, but before he could ring, the door opened, and Fleming with a scared face stood before him.
"Oh, my lord!" he began. "Better not come up—go to the club, my lord, and I'll bring your things——."
Yorke put him aside gently and went slowly up the stairs.
A man—own brother in appearance to the man in the street—was sitting on the sofa. He got up as Yorke entered, and touched his forehead.