"I'm on," said the child, much reassured at being called a little devil. "Carn't be much worse off than nah, wotever 'appens."
Two cabs were found at the corner.
"Jump in that one," the duke said, pointing to the last. "Follow me," he said to the driver, getting into the first cab as he did so, and giving the address of Rose's house in Westminster.
The two cabs started without comment or question.
There was something very authoritative about his Grace of Paddington sometimes.
The two cabs drove up to the little house in Westminster just as the rain cleared off, and a gleam of sunlight bursting through the clouds shone on the budding trees which topped the high wall of the Westminster sanctuary and jewelled them with prismatic fires. High above, the towers of the Abbey seemed washed and clean, rising into an air purged for a moment of grime and smoke, while the wet leaden roof of the nave shone like silver.
James Fabian Rose was on the doorstep of his house, and in the act of unlocking the door with his latchkey.
"Hallo!" he said. "So you're back, duke—home again! The ordeal is over, then!"
"Yes, it's quite over," the duke answered.
"Who's this ruffian?" said Rose, smiling at the little newsboy.