It was Mr. Merridew, still flushed and flustered with sentiment and satisfaction; as he passed, Denis scanned the smug, well-meaning face; but he had withdrawn deliberately from the path of the man whom he had driven across London to see. Talk to him about Nan!
"Now, sir, move on, please!"
The swollen crowd was streaming down Cheapside, shouting, cheering, and singing "Partant pour la Syrie," as it bore the great news westward. Already the sounds came faintly to the steps of the Royal Exchange, where Denis was the last man left to blink in the rays of the last policeman's lantern.
"All right, constable; but I only landed from Australia this morning, and I wish you'd tell me a thing or two first."
"Indeed, sir?" said the policeman. Denis felt in the pocket that was full of notes and gold.
"About this war," he pursued: "you see I never heard of it before to-day. Can you tell me which of the Guards have gone?"
"Coldstream and Grenadiers, sir."
"But not all of them?"
"The first battalion of the Coldstream and the third of the Grenadiers."
The man's prompt answer drew Denis's attention to the man himself. He was over six feet in height, and not an inch of it thrown away. But still more noticeable was a peculiar pride of countenance—some secret enthusiasm which added a freshness to the patriotic emotion to be found in any other face.