She clasped her hands together.  “Ow!” she cried.  “Yer mean it?  Yer reely mean it?”

“I never joke,” I said, “on sacred subjects.”

Then to my dismay she suddenly began to cry.  “You ain’t ’alf—­’alf bin good to me,” she jerked out.  “No one ain’t never bin good to me like you.  I’d—­I’d do anyfink for you.”

“In that case,” I said, “you may give me my hat—­and cheer up.”

She obeyed both commands, and then, still sniffing, valiantly marched to the front door and opened it for me to go out.

“Goo’-night, sir,” she said.

“Good-night, Gertrude,” I replied; and leaving her standing on the step I set off down the street.  Whatever else prison might have done for me, it certainly seemed to have given me a capacity for making friends.

I reached Florence Court at about a quarter to seven, keeping a sharp lookout along the embankment as I approached for any sign of a loitering detective.  Except for one aged gentleman, however, who seemed to be wholly occupied in spitting in the Thames, the stretch in front of the studios was absolutely deserted.  Glancing at the board in the hall as I entered, I saw that “Mr. Morrison” and “Miss Vivien” were both “in”—­a statement which in Tommy’s case was confirmed a moment later by his swift appearance at the door in answer to my knock.

“Mr. Morrison, I believe?” I said.

He seized me by the arm and dragged me inside.

“This is fine.  I never thought you’d be back as quick as this.  Are things all right?”

“I should hardly go as far as that,” I said.  “But we seem to be getting along quite nicely.”

He nodded.  “Good!  I just want a wash, and then we’ll go right in to Joyce’s place.  We are going to have supper there, and you can tell us all about it while we’re feeding.”

He splashed out some water into a basin in the corner of the studio, and made his ablutions with a swiftness that reminded me of some of my own toilets in the grey twilight of a Dartmoor dawn.  Tommy was never a man who wasted much trouble over the accessories of life.

“Come along,” he said, flinging down the towel on the sofa.  “Joyce will be dying to hear what’s happened!”

I turned towards the hall, but he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me back.

“Not that way.  We’ve a private road now—­runs along the back of the studios.”

He crossed the room, and opened a door which led out into a narrow stone passage roofed in by glass.

I followed him along this till we came to another door, on which Tommy tapped twice with his knuckles.  In a moment we heard a key turn and Joyce was standing on the threshold.  When she saw who it was she gave a little cry of welcome and held out both her hands.

“But how nice!” she exclaimed.  “I never thought you’d be here so soon.”

We had each taken a hand, and talking and laughing at the same time, she pulled us in after her and shut the door.