"Good-night, Gertrude," I replied; and leaving her standing on the step I set off down the street. Whatever else prison might have done for me, it certainly seemed to have given me a capacity for making friends.
I reached Florence Court at about a quarter to seven, keeping a sharp lookout along the embankment as I approached for any sign of a loitering detective. Except for one aged gentleman, however, who seemed to be wholly occupied in spitting in the Thames, the stretch in front of the studios was absolutely deserted. Glancing at the board in the hall as I entered, I saw that "Mr. Morrison" and "Miss Vivien" were both "in"—a statement which in Tommy's case was confirmed a moment later by his swift appearance at the door in answer to my knock.
"Mr. Morrison, I believe?" I said.
He seized me by the arm and dragged me inside.
"This is fine. I never thought you'd be back as quick as this. Are things all right?"
"I should hardly go as far as that," I said. "But we seem to be getting along quite nicely."
He nodded. "Good! I just want a wash, and then we'll go right in to Joyce's place. We are going to have supper there, and you can tell us all about it while we're feeding."
He splashed out some water into a basin in the corner of the studio, and made his ablutions with a swiftness that reminded me of some of my own toilets in the grey twilight of a Dartmoor dawn. Tommy was never a man who wasted much trouble over the accessories of life.
"Come along," he said, flinging down the towel on the sofa. "Joyce will be dying to hear what's happened!"
I turned towards the hall, but he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me back.