“So here you are!  What have you been up to, Gammon?  Are you drunk?”

Just as the cab drove up Greenacre was turning reluctantly from the house door, where he had held a warm parley with Mrs. Bubb; the landlady irritable at being disturbed in her first sleep, the untimely visitor much ruffled in temper by various causes.

“Drunk!” echoed Gammon, as he leapt to the pavement and clutched at Greenacre’s arm.  “Drunk yourself, more likely!  Where have you been since you sent that telegram?  Hold on a minute.”  He paid the cabman.  “Now then, give an account of yourself.”

“What the devil do you mean?” cried the other.  “What account do I owe to you?”

“Well, I might answer that question,” said Gammon with a grin, “if I took time to calculate.”

“We can’t talk in the street at this time of night, with snow coming down.  Suppose we go up to your room?”

“As you please.  But I advise you to talk quietly; the walls and the floors are not over thick.”

The latch-key admitted them, and they went as softly as possible up the stairs, only one involuntary kick from Greenacre on sounding wood causing his host to mutter a malediction.  By a light in the bedroom they viewed each other, and Greenacre showed astonishment.

“So you are drunk, or have been You’ve got a black eye, and your clothes are all pulled about.  You’ve been in a row.”

“You’re not far wrong.  Tell’ me what you’ve been doing, and you shall hear where the row was and who was with me.”

“Gammon, you’ve been behaving like a cad—­a scoundrel.  I didn’t think it of you.  You went to that place in Sloane Street.  No use lying; I’ve been told you were there.  You must have found out I was going away, and you’ve played old Harry.  I didn’t think you were a fellow of that sort; I had more faith in you.”

Upon mutual recrimination followed an exchange of narratives.  Greenacre’s came first.  He was the victim, he declared, of such ill luck as rarely befell a man.  Arriving at Euston by the Irish mail, and hastening to get a cab, whom should he encounter on the very platform but a base-minded ruffian who nursed a spite against him; a low fellow who had taken advantage of his good nature, and who—­in short, a man from whom it was impossible to escape, for several good reasons, until they had spent some hours together.  He got off a telegram to Lord Polperro, and could do no more till nearly eleven o’clock at night.  Arriving headlong at Lowndes Mansions, he learnt with disgust what had gone on there in his absence.  And now, what defence had Gammon to offer?  What was his game?

“I guess pretty well what yours is, my boy,” answered the listener.  “And I’m not sorry I’ve spoilt it.”

Thereupon he related the singular train of events between breakfast time this (or rather yesterday) morning and the ringing out of the old year.  When it came to a description of Lord Polperro’s accident Greenacre lost all control of himself.