"Wait a moment, Desmond," he said, gaily, "and give an old friend a word."
Desmond seemed annoyed at being recognised, and looking sharply at the face of the other gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, which, however, had not a very delighted ring in it.
"Ellersby, by Jove!" he said in a hesitating manner, "I thought you were in Persia or in Patagonia. Who the deuce would have expected to see you in Piccadilly on such a devil of a night?"
"I've been to a ball," explained Ellersby, "and thought I'd walk back to my hotel just to renew my acquaintance with London fogs. It was a mad freak, but amusing. Come to my hotel and have a nightcap."
"Thanks, awfully," said Desmond, hurriedly, "but I can't. I'm--I'm in a hurry. Where are you stopping?"
"Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street."
"Eh!" said Desmond, with a start. "Jermyn Street--all right, look you up to-morrow."
"Wait a moment," observed Ellersby, detaining him. "Tell me, where is Calliston? I want to see him."
"Not much chance," replied Desmond, shaking his head, "he's--gone off to-night down to Shoreham--yachting, you know. Wants to go to the Azores; well, see you to-morrow; good-night--I'm in a deuce of a hurry."
He spoke rapidly, with nervous agitation quite at variance with his usual demeanour, as Ellersby knew, and as he went off quickly and was swallowed up by the fog, the latter resumed his walk with a quiet laugh.