"One of you had better fill his hat with water and throw it into this chap's face. He's perfectly happy just now, but it might be well to get him out of his trance, and tell him he should keep himself in better condition."
As he came up the steps they made respectful way for him.
"Good-day to you, gentlemen. Thank you very much for seeing fair play and keeping an eye out for the police. Neither you nor I want any bobbies interrupting a little friendly sport."
"Right you are, my lord," said one, little dreaming how accurate he was in his salutation.
Stranleigh walked along the Embankment, carrying the painter's kit as if it had been the spoils of combat. He asked a man he met where Carlyle's house was situated, and the stranger obligingly pointed out the end of Cheyne Row.
"Go up that street," he said, "and you'll find the house to the right. I don't know its number, but anyone will tell you which it is. I think there's a tablet on it, but I'm not sure. They've made a museum of it, and you can get in for a shilling."
Stranleigh thanked him. He found Marlow and the artist on the opposite side of the street from Carlyle's house, engaged in a friendly conversation, and not looking at the celebrated building at all.
"Hello!" cried Marlow. "Is it over already?"
