The stranger spoke beneath the shadow of a great lamp in the Charing Cross Road. Not hearing him immediately, Alban had arrived at the next lamp before the earnest entreaty arrested him and found him erect and watchful in a moment.
"I beg your pardon, sir; you are Mr. Kennedy, are you not?"
"My name, at least the half of it."
"Mr. Alban Kennedy, shall we say. I have been looking for you for three days, sir. It is not often that I search three days for anybody when his house is known. Forgive me, it is not my fault that there has been a delay."
Alban knew no more than the man in the moon what he was driving at, and he thought it must be all a mistake.
"What's it all about, old chap?" he exclaimed, falling into the manners of the street. "Why have you been hurrying yourself on my account?"
"To give you this letter, sir, and to ask you to accompany me."
Alban whistled, but took the note nevertheless and tore it open with trembling fingers. He thought that he recognized the handwriting, but was not sure. When he had read the letter through, he turned to the man and said that he would go with him.
"Then I will call a hansom, sir."