His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.
“I thought I wasn’t mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor,” said the soldier.
Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier.
“Yes, laddie, it’s your old Phineas. Phineas McPhail, M. A.—now private P. McPhail.”
It was no other than Doggie’s tutor of his childhood days.
“Very glad to see you,” Doggie murmured.
Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie’s instinctive craving for companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome.
“Let us have a talk,” he said. “Come to my rooms. There will be some dinner.”
“Will I come? Will I have dinner? Laddie, I will.”
In the Strand they hailed a taxi-cab and drove to Doggie’s place.