At that one little corner of
London just off the Strand you see more variety of men and women than
perhaps at any other spot. All grades pass before you, from the pushful
American commercial man interested in a patent medicine, to the proud
Indian Rajah with his turbaned suite; from the variety actress to the
daughter of a peer, or the wife of a millionaire pork-butcher doing
Europe.
"You've been a bit down in the mouth to-night, Jack," I said presently,
after we had been watching the cabs coming up, depositing the
home-coming revelers from the Savoy or the Carlton.
"Yes," he sighed. "And surely I have enough to cause me--after what I've
heard from Bartlett."
"What! Did the facts he told us convey any bad news to you?" I inquired
with pretended ignorance.
"Yes," he said hoarsely, after a brief pause. Then he added: "Bartlett
said you could tell me what happened up in Scotland, where Leithcourt
had shooting. Tell me everything," he added with the air of a man in
whom all hope is dead.
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