"You were right, sir," he said, simply. "I was a prig!"
They stood for a moment, their hands locked. It was a silent greeting, but their faces were eloquent. Brooks looked from his father to Lady Caroom and smiled.
"I could not wait," he said. "I was forced to come to you at once.
But I think that I will go now and pay another call."
He stood outside on the kerb while they fetched him a hansom. The fresh night wind blew in his face, cool and sweet. From Piccadilly came the faint hum of tram, and the ceaseless monotonous beat of hurrying footsteps. The hansom pulled up before him with a jerk. He sprang lightly in.
"No. 110, Crescent Flats, Kensington."