possess so strong a character as his exterior indicated. 

 “It’s very kind of you,” he began stiffly. 

 Freddie nodded. He was acutely conscious of this himself. 

 “Some fellows,” he observed, “would say ‘Not at all!’ I suppose. But not the Last of the Rookes! For, honestly, old man, between ourselves, I don’t mind admitting that this is the bravest deed of the year, and I’m dashed if I would do it for anyone else.” 

 “It’s very good of you, Freddie …” 

 “That’s all right. I’m a Boy Scout, and this is my act of kindness for today.” 

 Derek got up from the table. 

 “Of course you mustn’t come,” he said. “We can’t form a sort of debating society to discuss Jill on the platform at Charing Cross.” 

 “Oh, I would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasional tactful word.” 

 “Nonsense!” 

 “The wheeze would simply be to …” 

 “It’s impossible.” 

 “Oh, very well,” said Freddie, damped. “Just as you say, of course. But there’s nothing like a gang, old man, nothing like a gang!” 

§ 2.

 Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and grunted irritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding as usual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro like Juggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, while others, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blackness and disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. For outside the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tasted coppery. In the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to the accompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sun had worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like a great red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again, blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is a London fog’s only redeeming quality. 

 It seemed to Derek that he had been patrolling the platform for a life-time, but he resumed his sentinel duty. The fact that the boat-train, 

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