The House was thinning when the noble lord rose to go. Andrew joined him at the gate.
The Scotchman's nervous elation had all gone. A momentary thrill passed through his veins as he remembered that in all probability they would never be together again. After that he was quite calm.
The night was black.
The rain had ceased, but for an occasional drop shaken out of a shivering star.
But for a few cabs rolling off with politicians, Whitehall was deserted.
The very tax-collectors seemed to have got to bed.
Lord Randolph shook hands with two or three other members homeward bound, walked a short distance with one of them, and then set off towards his hotel alone.
His pace was leisurely, as that of a man in profound thought.
There was no time to be lost; but Andrew dallied.
Once he crept up and could have done it. He thought he would give him another minute. There was a footstep behind, and he fell back. It was Sir William Harcourt. Lord Randolph heard him, and, seeing who it was, increased his pace.