"You don't tell us--" I began again.
He understood, of course. What he said was, "The late Mr. Gladstone,
they tell me, used to address Queen Victoria as if she were a public
meeting. She complained that she didn't like it . . . and anyway, if
you two can't help it, I can't help the acoustic defects of this
flat. . . . Some more brandy? You'd better. It's a beast of a
night; but your faithful dog shall bear you company."
NIGHT THE SECOND.
THE MEETING AT THE BATHS.
Foe's man, after whistling ten minutes or so for a taxi, returned
upstairs, powdered with sleet. There wasn't, he said, so much as a
four-wheeler crawling in the street. We went down and waited in the
hall while he whistled again.
"Where is this show of yours being held?" Foe asked, after a bit.
"In the Baths," I told him, "just across the bridge. Yes, actually
_in_ the great Swimming Bath. . . . You needn't be afraid, though.
They drain it."
"I don't care if they omitted that precaution," said he. "This is an
adventure, and I'm for taking it in the proper spirit.
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