At about a quarter to two I left the house, and making my way down on to the embankment set off for Chelsea.  It was a delightful day, warm and sunny as July; and this, combined with the fact that I was on my way to see Tommy, lifted me into a most cheerful frame of mind.  Indeed I actually caught myself whistling—­a habit which I don’t think I had indulged in since my eventful visit to Mr. Marks.

I looked up at George’s house as I passed, but except for a black cat sunning herself on the top of the gatepost there was no sign of life about the place.  My thoughts went back to Joyce, and I wondered how the dinner party at the Savoy had gone off.  I could almost see George sitting at one side of the table with that insufferable air of gallantry and self-satisfaction that he always assumed in the presence of a pretty girl.  Poor, brave little Joyce!  If the pluck and loyalty of one’s friends counted for anything, I was certainly as well off as any one in London.

As I drew near Florence Mansions I felt a sort of absurd inclination to chuckle out loud.  Much as I disliked the thought of dragging Tommy into my tangled affairs, the prospect of springing such a gorgeous surprise on him filled me with a mischievous delight.  Up till now, except for my arrest and sentence, I had never seen anything upset his superb self-possession in the slightest degree.

A glance at the board in the hall as I turned in showed me that he had arrived.  I marched along the passage till I came to his flat, and lifting the knocker gave a couple of sharp raps.  There was a short pause; then I heard the sound of footsteps, and a moment later Tommy himself opened the door.

He was wearing the same dressing-gown that I remembered three years ago, and at the sight of his untidy hair and his dear old badly-shaved face I as nearly as possible gave the show away.  Pulling myself together with an effort, however, I made him a polite bow.

“Mr. Morrison?” I inquired in my best assumed voice.

“That’s me all right,” said Tommy.

“My name’s Nicholson,” I said.  “I am an artist.  I was asked to look you up by a friend of yours—­Delacour of Paris.”

I had mentioned a man for whose work I knew Tommy entertained a profound respect.

“Oh, come in,” he cried, swinging open the door and gripping my hand; “come in, old chap.  Delighted to see you.  The place is in a hell of a mess, but you won’t mind that.  I’ve only just got back from sailing.”

He dragged me into the studio, which was in the same state of picturesque confusion as when I had last seen it, and pulling up a large easy-chair thrust me down into its capacious depths.

“I’m awfully glad I was in,” he went on.  “I wouldn’t have missed you for the world.  How’s old Delacour?  I haven’t seen him for ages.  I never get over to Paris these days.”

“Delacour’s all right,” I answered—­“at least, as far as I know.”