"I'm agreeable," I said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Good man!" said he, with some of his former sparkle of interest. "And now we'll have another to toast it, and then I must be off."
"Don't you think you'd better stay here the night?" I asked. "I can put you up. And the fog's thicker."
"Thanks, old man," he replied with easy familiarity, "I would like a roost, only I've got an engagement. I wired to some one, you know." And he winked at me wickedly.
"Very well," said I. "If you have an appointment, I would suggest that we leave over the toast."
"You're right," he said ingenuously. "But it was a nasty bath. All serene. I'll fix that up. By the way," he paused on his road to the door, "I haven't your name."
"Nor I yours," I answered. "Mine's Richard Phillimore."
"Mine's Lane," he said. "Qualified?"
"M.B. London," I replied.
"Good for you. That'll make it easier. I suppose I can go in your togs."