But if I didn’t go to Cheyne Walk, what was I to do?  I put the question to myself as I slowly lifted the glass of old brandy which the waiter had set down in front of me, and before the fine spirit touched my lips the answer had flashed into my mind.  I would go and see Tommy!

It was the perfect solution of the difficulty; and as I put down the glass again I laughed softly in sheer happiness.  The prospect of interviewing Tommy without his recognizing me was only a degree less attractive than the thought of a similar experience with George.  I knew that the mere sight of his velvet coat and his dear old burly carcase would fill me with the most delightful emotions—­emotions which now, amongst all my one-time friends, he and perhaps poor little Joyce would alone have the power to provoke.  The others seemed to me as dead as the past to which they belonged.

One thing I was determined on, and that was that I wouldn’t give away my secret.  It would be difficult not to, for there were naturally a hundred things I wanted to say to Tommy; but, however much I might be tempted, I was resolved to play the game.  It was not the thought of my promise to McMurtrie (that sat very easily on my conscience), but the possibility of getting Tommy himself into trouble.  I knew that for me he would run any risk in the world with the utmost cheerfulness, but I had no intention of letting him do it.  He had done more than enough for me at the time of the trial.

I called for the waiter and paid my bill.  It seemed absurdly cheap for such a delightful evening, and I said as much to M. Gaultier, who insisted on accompanying me to the door.  He received the remark with a protesting gesture of his hands.

“Most people,” he said, “feed.  Monsieur eats.  To such we do not wish to overcharge.  It is a pleasure to provide a dinner which is appreciated.”

The porter outside volunteered to call me a taxi, and while he was engaged in that operation I had a sharp look up and down the street to see whether my friend with the scar was hanging about anywhere.  I could discern no sign of him, but all the same, when the taxi came up, I took the precaution of directing the man in a fairly audible voice to drive me to the Pavilion, in Piccadilly Circus.  It was not until we were within a few yards of that instructive institution that I whistled through the tube and told him to take me on to Chelsea.

I knew Tommy was in the same studio, for Joyce had told me so in her second letter.  It was one of a fairly new block of four or five at the bottom of Beaufort Street, about half a mile along the embankment from George’s house.  All the way down I was debating with myself what excuse I could offer for calling at such a late hour, and finally I decided that the best thing would be to pretend that I was a travelling American artist who had seen and admired some of Tommy’s work.  Under such circumstances it would be difficult for the latter not to ask me in for a short chat.