"When—when shall we start?"
"We'll start to start to-morrow," said Leighton. "We've got to outfit, you know."
Two days later they were ready. Cellette kissed them both good-by. Leighton gave her a pretty trinket, a heavy gold locket on a chain. She glanced up sidewise at him through half-closed eyes.
"What's this?" she asked in the tone of the woman who knows she must always pay.
"Just a little nothing from Lewis," said Leighton. "Something to remember him by."
"So," said Cellette, gravely. "I understand. He will not come back. It is well."
Leighton patted her shoulder.
"You are shrewd," he said. Then he added, with a smile: "Too shrewd. He will be back in two months."
A fiacre carried them beyond the fortifications. The cabman smiled at the generous drink-money Leighton gave him, spit on it, and then sat and watched father and son as they stepped lightly off up the broad highway. "Eh!" he called, choking down the curses with which he usually parted from his fares, "good luck! Follow the sun around the earth. It will bring you back."
Leighton half turned, and waved his arm. Then they settled down to the business of walking. They dropped into their place as a familiar part of the open road of only a very few years ago, for they were dressed in the orthodox style: knickerbockers; woolen stockings; heavy footwear; short jackets; packs, such as once the schoolboy used for books; and double-peaked caps.