"Dinner will certainly be over. When I come out, I turn to the right, pass the estate agent's, take the first to the left, and recollect that I'm looking for a bow-window and a white balcony, and a fence that makes it impossible to see them. Do I know it?"
"Not 'impossible.' But—yes, I'll trust you."
He parted from the women at Victoria, and, getting into a hansom, gave himself up to reflection. The rooms that he shared with Turquand were in the convenient, if unfashionable, neighbourhood of Soho, and an all-pervading odour of jam reminded him presently that he was nearing his destination. He wasn't sure of finding Turquand in at this hour. He opened the door with his latchkey, and, dragging his portmanteaus into the passage, ran upstairs. The journalist, in his shirt-sleeves, was reading an evening paper, with his slippered feet crossed on the window-sill.
"Hallo!" he said; "you've got back?"
"Yes," said Humphrey. "How the jam smells!"
"It's raspberry to-day. I've come to the conclusion that the raspberry's the most penetrating. How are you?"
"Dry, and hungry too. Is there anything to drink in the place?"
"There's a very fine brand of water on the landing, and there's the remainder of a roll, extra sec, in the cupboard, I believe; I finished the whisky last night. We can go and have some dinner at the Suisse. Madame is désolée; she's asked after you most tenderly."
"Good old madame! And her moustache?"
"More luxuriant."