"Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in the passage at Number 100, you know."
"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure."
"H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison."
As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his sensation of bodily vigour.
"A weakling—no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do yours must require an occasional holiday."
"And I required one very badly, eh?"
"You required one, I believe."
"Well, I've had it. And now we'll see."
The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde Park Corner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people going home from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, and carrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, in which lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly or whistled shrilly as they walked.
"Until the evening," murmured Father Murchison to himself.