“You can come,” he said at last. “If you'd only got a copper or two we could ride; it's down Clapham way.”
Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside.
“I wonder whether she'll be pleased?” he remarked, as they walked slowly along. “She might be—women are funny creatures—so faithful. I knew one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again.”
Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation. “You'll have money in your pocket soon.”
Mr. Davis's face brightened. “And a watch and chain too,” he said.
“And smoke your cigar of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wotton, “and have a easy-chair and a glass for a friend.”
Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it about. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.
At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.
A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road of trim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word “Blairgowrie” inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for a moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton, knocked at the door.