“Well?”
“£300 to me, [£]200 to you,” said Welsh, decisively.
“Rot, old man. I’ll share fairly, if you insist. £250 apiece, will that do?”
Welsh said nothing, but his face was no longer the countenance of the jovial adventurer.
“It will have to, I suppose,” he replied, at length.
It was with this little cloud on the horizon that they saw the lights of London twinkle through the windows, and were carried into the clamour of the platforms.
They both drove first to Twiddel’s rooms; and as they looked out once more on the life and lights and traffic of the streets, their faces cleared again.
“We’ll have a merry evening!” cried Welsh.
“A little supper,” suggested Twiddel; “a music-hall——”
“Et cetera,” added Welsh, with a laugh.