“Do you know where I can find him?” asked Gerard, growing impatient.
The clerk did know. Lawyer’s clerks are certain about most things.
“Mr. Colman is at home, at his private residence.”
“Where is that?”
“Are you a client, sir?” asked the clerk, with an air of importance.
“No, confound you,” exclaimed Gerard. “My name is Merriam. Perhaps you have heard of it. What’s your master’s address?”
“Fifty-two Windsor Terrace, Hyde Park, sir,” replied the clerk promptly.
Gerard nodded and withdrew. But for his previous hesitation, he would have gone on to Harroway. As his self-esteem, however, was piqued, he hailed a cab in the Strand, and continued his quest of Hugh in the direction indicated. He leaned over the panels, his gloves in his great sunburnt hands, and tried to distract his thoughts by contemplation of the busy thoroughfares. Their unchanged aspect impressed him with the returned wanderer’s illogical astonishment. But for his own incidented career during his absence he might have left them only yesterday. Life seemed to have stood still in London. He half pitied its stagnation. He himself had whirled through time; had made a fortune, braved countless adventures. Every day had differed from its predecessor. He had lived, while this unchanging scene had gone mechanically on, day after day, like the reiterated performance of some gigantic spectacle. The Strand, the Haymarket, Piccadilly Circus, held his attention, but when the cab turned off through the dull, decorous streets between Regent Street and Oxford Street, he leaned back in the cab, and his thoughts were again bent anxiously inwards. Again he felt the nervous reluctance to meet Hugh, tried to formulate in his mind the explanation and apology whose accomplishment was the main object of his visit. He had often styled himself, boastingly, a plain man. But a plain man is very much like a plain cook, unable to cope successfully with anything beyond the commonplace. His errand dealt with extraordinary issues. How should he fulfil it? And there was Hugh’s fiery temper to be reckoned with, and his command of scathing speech. Gerard had always been just a little afraid of Hugh in the old days, and the half-acknowledged habit of timorousness still survived.
The cab drove down Oxford Street, past the Marble Arch, and turned up one of the thoroughfares leading north. A quiet street to the left contained Windsor Terrace. Gerard alighted at Number Fifty-two, dismissed the cabman, and knocked at the door. A maid-servant opened. On seeing him, she started and looked at him in some bewilderment.
“Is Mr. Colman in?” asked Gerard.