"My dear fellow," said Jimmy, buttoning up his coat and putting on his hat as he spoke, "my way is always your way. Are you going to walk or will you cab it?"
"Walk," Browne replied. "This is not the sort of weather to ride in hansoms. If you are ready, come along."
The two young men passed out of the club and along Pall Mall together. Turning up Waterloo Place, they proceeded in the direction of Piccadilly. The fog was thicker there than elsewhere, and every shop window was brilliantly illuminated in order to display the wares within.
"Oh, by the way, Browne, I've got something to show you," said Foote, as they passed over the crossing of Charles Street. "It may interest you."
"What is it?" asked Browne. "A new cigarette or something more atrocious than usual in the way of ties?"
"Better than that," returned his companion, and as he spoke he led his friend towards a picture-shop, in the window of which were displayed a number of works of art. Occupying a prominent position in the centre was a large water-colour, and as Browne glanced at it his heart gave a leap in his breast. It was a view of Merok taken from the spot where he had rescued Katherine Petrovitch from death upwards of seven months before. It was a clever bit of work, and treated in an entirely unconventional fashion.
"It's not by any means bad, is it?" said Foote, after Browne had been looking at it in silence for more than a minute. "If I had the money—— But I say, old chap, what is the matter? You are as pale as if you had seen a ghost. Don't you feel well?"
"Perfectly well," his friend replied; "it's the fog."
He did not say that in the corner of the picture he had seen the artist's name, and that that name was the one he had cherished so fondly and for so long a time.
"Just excuse me for a moment, will you?" he said. "I should like to go into the shop and ask a question about that picture."