“Only three months and every hour is priceless.  This time to-morrow I shall be blazing away at a grouse drive.”

From grouse they fell to talking of shooting, of old scenes, of rabbiting and ferreting, of cricket matches, schoolfellows and scrapes.

Suddenly Douglas sprang to his feet and pointed to the clock.

“Half-past one, I must run!  Good-bye and good luck, old boy,” wringing his friend’s hand, “I shan’t forget this lunch in a hurry,” and he was gone.  This little break and talk of old times and warm friends gave Shafto something pleasant to think of for many days; it was like a gleam of sunshine in his grey and joyless life.

Richard Hutton, hack writer and “ghost,” sat next to him at table twice a day, and proved a sympathetic neighbour.  Hutton was a clever, cultured, and—­when he pleased—­a wholly delightful companion.  Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together, visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a dash into the country, or up the river.

“You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto,” he remarked one evening; “how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can find in the Caledonian Market?  It’s an out-of-the-way place, where once a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up a really staggering bargain.”

“What’s that?” inquired Shafto.

“Well, I’m told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid silver—­a bit of loot from some old French chateau.  I must confess that I’ve never found any spoil, but I only root among the books.  Once, I thought I’d got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be a fake.”

“All right,” agreed Shafto, “I’d like to try my luck; I’ll go with you and look for a set of gold fire-irons.  I’ve nothing special on—­only tennis in the afternoon.”

“And the market is at its best in the morning—­we’ll start at ten.”

Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian Market.  It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans—­mostly drawn by aged and decrepit horses.  Every variety of goods had its own particular pitch.  In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of theological works a great host.  Farther on the explorers came to a vast collection of old iron.  It was as if numbers of travelling tinkers had here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers, stair-rods, tin-cans, officers’ swords—­yes, at least a dozen—­frying pans and saucepans.  Old clothes were needless to say, a prominent feature.  Here you might suit yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a red flannel petticoat, a soiled evening gown on graceful