“But you shall.”
“If I wrote so, I should feel bound to leave town.”
“Very good. I’ll go with you—to the South Pole if you like.”
“I shall never leave London,” said Stratton gravely.
“Then stop here and get well. Write.”
The weaker will obeyed the stronger, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, Guest pocketed the letter to post.
“By the way,” he said, “I came through the inn to-night on the chance of finding you there.”
Stratton’s face grew stony.
“And old Mother Brade got hold of me to practice her tongue upon.”
Stratton was silent, and sat gazing straight before him.