n put to bed and must there remain.

Utterly done up Gammon threw himself into the cab to be driven to
Kennington Road. When he reached Mrs. Bubb's he was fast asleep, but
there a voice addressed him which restored his consciousness very
quickly indeed.

CHAPTER XXIII

HIS LORDSHIP RETIRES

It was the voice of Greenacre, unsteady with wrath, stripped utterly of
its bland intonations.

"So here you are! What have you been up to, Gammon? Are you drunk?"

Just as the cab drove up Greenacre was turning reluctantly from the
house door, where he had held a warm parley with Mrs. Bubb; the
landlady irritable at being disturbed in her first sleep, the untimely
visitor much ruffled in temper by various causes.

"Drunk!" echoed Gammon, as he leapt to the pavement and clutched at
Greenacre's arm. "Drunk yourself, more likely! Where have you been
since you sent that telegram? Hold on a minute." He paid the cabman.
"Now then, give an account of yourself."

"What the devil do you mean?" cried the other. "What account do I owe
to you?"

"Well, I might answer that question," said Gammon with a grin, "if I
took time to calculate."

"We can't talk in the street at this time of night, with snow coming
down. Suppose we go up to your room?"

"As you please. But I advise you to talk quietly; the walls and the
floors are not over thick."

The latch-key admitted them, and they went as softly as possible up the
stairs, only one involuntary kick from Greenacre on sounding wood
causing his host to mutter a malediction. By a light in the bedroom
they viewed each other, and Greenacre showed astonishment.

"So you _are_ drunk, or have been You've got a black eye, and your
clothes are all pulled about. You've been in a row."

"You're not far wrong. Tell' me what you've been doing, and you shall
hear where the row was and who was with me."

"Gammon, you've been behaving like a cad--a scoundrel. I didn't think
it of you. You went to that place in Sloane Street. No use lying; I've
been told you were there. You must have found out I was going away, and
you've played old Harry. I didn't think you were a fellow of that sort;
I had more faith in you."

Upon mutual recrimination followed an exchange of narratives.
Greenacre's came first. He was the victim, he declared, of such ill
luck as rarely befell a man. Arriving at Euston by the Irish mail, and
hastening to get a cab, whom should he encounter on the very platform
but a base