The active life of the Penmen's Club was from six till eight and again from one till three in the morning. By the time we had finished dinner the coffee-room was deserted, and I suggested an adjournment to the Eclectic to await midnight and the answer of the German Government. Time was no object, and we walked slowly down Fleet Street and the Strand. Opposite Romano's a piano organ was grinding out its appointed six tunes, and a ring of urchins held hands and danced up and down the gutter singing:
"Dixie! All abo-o-oard for Dixie!"
"Damn that song!" Loring exclaimed irritably.
By Charing Cross we halted to let the traffic pour out of the station yard, and I felt myself touched on the shoulder.
"Surely George Oakleigh? You don't remember me?"
I looked at a shabby, thin man with bearded face and restless eyes. Then we shook hands, and I whispered to Loring over my shoulder to take the others on to the Club and await me.
"That was Jim Loring, wasn't it?" asked the shabby man eagerly.
"Yes, and the other two were Mayhew and O'Rane; they were some years junior to us, of course. Quite like the old days in Matheson's, Draycott?"
He nodded and glanced bemusedly at the glaring lights of the Strand and the thundering stream of traffic.