Fay raised his left hand and fingered the little silver greyhound. He was silent as he led her northward and then toward the West End of London. They both heard the chimes of Big Ben on the House of Parliament. Its notes were striking over the housetops of the city.
They passed through deep aisles of yews and poplars and sturdy English oaks. They reached Rose Crescent and the road which led to the river. Their arms were linked as a policeman stepped out from a clump of box-wood and eyed them intently.
Fay saluted with his left hand to his plaid cap. The “Bobbyâ€� stood with his great red palms on his knees. He smiled slowly—broadly.
They vanished in the gloom of Rose Crescent—merged as one. The Bobby sighed. He could not have drawn down a fairer picture of contentment had he called upon the highest stars.
THE END