"But—I wish you to remain—I command it!" Despite his efforts at composure, Baggin's voice quavered.
His companion laughed. "A Roland for your Oliver, my friend!" he cried. "Favour for favour! You grant my small request?"
Baggin shook his head.
"You will be king, eh?—and alone? Good!"
He put on his top hat, adjusted his silk muffler about his throat, and with an amiable nod to his companion, stepped out into the night.
The fog had thinned to a nebulous haze, fine as a lady's veil, and the young man strode along briskly. Ten minutes brought him to the waiting hansom.
"Covent Garden," he directed the driver. He sprang in and leaned back against the cushions.
"So Baggin would be king!" He smiled with a certain grimness.