For McTaggart was taking a deep breath of the foggy air that reeked with petrol.
"It's good to be back again," he thought; "I wonder if Bethune will be there? I sent him a wire, but he's such a beggar for work, one never knows. By Jove, I must see about a car—useful during the present strike..." He peered out at the Berkeley steps where a lady in evening dress, her light wrap drawn about her, filmy skirts wound close, crossed, dainty, over the pavement beside her attendant cavalier.
They turned into a side street, splashing and lumbering along, until, at last, they halted before the old familiar, narrow house.
The door was open. McTaggart ran up the steep stairs like a boy.
"Hullo! Mrs. Frost—how are you? Yes, I'm back. Rather late. Hope you got my letter all right?"
"Yessir. Your rooms are ready." The sour faced woman was actually smiling.
"My man's below—but he can't speak English—Will you see to him and pay the cab? Hullo! there you are, old man."
He was shaking hands wildly with Bethune.
"Steady on—what a grip! Confound you, you've broken my wrist..." Bethune's honest face was beaming. He dealt him a playful blow on the chest.
"Hard as a rock!—you do look fit. I prepared to receive a languid foreigner. Come inside, Monsieur le Marquis..."