g, though
varying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as to
whether he would be able to keep up that personality under the
microscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. He
would retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the National
Provincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph; even if they had, it was
not a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. He
endorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gave
directions for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace,
and took his departure.

He had changed Rochester's five pound note before going to Collins, and
he had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Five
pounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist's where he had
changed his note, the taxi to Sergeants' Inn, and the glass of liqueur
brandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday at
the Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, and
then lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon at
that Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself.

With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the road
near Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm took
his.

"Hello, Rochy," said the voice.

Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen--so
he seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth,
immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirely
pleasing.

"Hello," said Jones.

"What became of you that night?" asked the cheery one, as they crossed
the road still arm in arm.

"Which night?"

"Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Are
you asleep, Rawjester--or what ails you?"

"Oh, I remember," said Jones.

They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed up
Southampton Street and through Henrietta Street towards Leicester
Square. The unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemed
well qualified.

He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to his
listener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into Bond
Street, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice of
two dozen coloured socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosier's, the
unknown was proposing luncheon, when a carriage, an open Victoria,
going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones' attention.

It was a v