He effaced himself.  Paul found himself laughing into Barney Bill’s twinkling eyes.  “Dear old Bill,” he cried, clapping his old friend on the shoulder.  “How are things going?  How’s the caravan?  I’ve looked out for it on so many country roads.”

“I’m thinking of retiring,” said Bill.  “I can only do a few summer months now—­and things isn’t what they was.”

“And Jane?” He turned to her.

“I’m Mr. Finn’s secretary.”

“Oh,” said Paul.  Mr. Finn, then, was an important person.

The drill hall attendant shut the door, and save for the street lamps they were in gloom.  There was an embarrassed little silence.  Paul broke it by saying:  “We must exchange addresses, and fix up a meeting for a nice long talk.”

“If you would like to have a talk with your old friends now, my house is at your disposal,” said Mr. Finn, in a soft, melancholy voice.  “It is not far from here.”

“That’s very kind of you—­but I couldn’t trespass on your hospitality.”

“Gor bless you,” exclaimed Barney Bill.  “Nothing of the kind.  Didn’t I tell yer I’ve knowed him since we was lads together?  And Jane lives there.”

Paul laughed.  “In that case—­”

“You’ll be most welcome,” said Mr. Finn.  “This way.”

He went ahead with Barney Bill, whose queer side limp awoke poignant memories of the Bludston brickfield.  Paul followed with Jane.

“And what have you been doing?” he asked.

“Typewriting.  Then Bill came across Mr. Finn, whom he hadn’t seen for years, and got me the position of secretary.  Otherwise I’ve been doing nothing particular.”

“If you knew what a hunt I had years ago to find you,” he said, and began to explain the set of foolish circumstances when they turned the corner of the drill hall and found a four-wheeled cab waiting.

“I had already engaged it for my friends and myself,” Mr. Finn explained.  “Will you get in?”

Jane and Paul and Mr. Finn entered the cab.  Barney Bill, who liked air and for whom the raw November night was filled apparently with balmy zephyrs, clambered in his crablike way next the driver.  They started.

“What induced you to come to-night?” Paul asked.

“We saw the announcement in the newspapers,” replied Jane.  “Barney Bill said the Mr. Paul Savelli could, be no one else but you.  I said it couldn’t.”

“Why?” he asked sharply.

“There are heaps of people of the same name.”

“But you didn’t think I was equal to it?”

She laughed a short laugh.  “That’s just how you used to talk.  You haven’t changed much.”

“I hope I haven’t,” replied Paul earnestly.  “And I don’t think you’ve changed either.”

“Very little has happened to change me,” said Jane.

The cab lumbered on through dull, dimly lit, residential roads.  Only by the swinging gleam of an occasional street lamp could Paul distinguish the faces of his companions.  “I hope you’re on our side, Mr. Finn,” he said politely to his host, who sat on the small back seat.