"We got to Putney," he said, "with just an occasional run into a tram-
car, and were going up the hill, when suddenly he turned a corner. You
know his style at a corner--over the curb, across the road, and into the
opposite lamp-post. Of course, as a rule one is prepared for it, but I
never reckoned on his turning up there, and the first thing I recollect
is finding myself sitting in the middle of the street with a dozen fools
grinning at me.
"It takes a man a few minutes in such a case to think where he is and
what has happened, and when I got up they were some distance away. I ran
after them for a quarter of a mile, shouting at the top of my voice, and
accompanied by a mob of boys, all yelling like hell on a Bank Holiday.
But one might as well have tried to hail the dead, so I took the 'bus
back.
"They might have guessed what had happened," he added, "by the shifting
of the cart, if they'd had any sense. I'm not a light-weight."
He complained of soreness, and said he would go home. I suggested a cab,
but he replied that he would rather walk.
I met McQuae in the evening at the St. James's Theatre. It was a first
night, and he was taking sketches for _The Graphic_. The moment he saw
me he made his way across to me.
"The very man I wanted to see," he said. "Did I take Hallyard with me in
the cart to Richmond this afternoon?"
"You did," I replied.
"So Leena says," he answered, greatly bewildered, "but I'll swear he
wasn't there when we got to the Queen's Hotel."
"It's all right," I said, "you dropped him at Putney."
"Dropped him at Putney!" he repeated. "I've no recollection of doing
so."
"He has," I answered. "You ask him about it. He's full of it."
Everybody said he never would get married; that it was absurd to suppose
he ever would remember the day, the church, and the girl, all in one
morning; that if he did get as far as the altar he would forget what he
had come for, and would give the bride away to his own best man. Hallyard
had an idea that he was already married, but that the fact had slipped
his memory. I myself felt sure that if he did marry he would forget all
about it the next day.
But everybody was wrong. By some miraculous means the ceremony got
itself accomplished, so that if Hallyard's idea be correct (as to which
there is every possibility), there will be trouble. As for my own fears,
I dismissed them the moment I saw the lady. She was a charming, cheerful
little woman, but did not look the type that would let him forget all
about it.
I had not seen him since his marriage, which had happened in the spring.
Working my way back from Scotland by easy stages, I stopped for a few
days at Scarboro'. After _table d'hote_ I put on my mackintosh, and went
out for a walk. It was raining hard, but after a month in Scotland one
does not notice English weather, and I wanted some air. Struggling along
the dark beach with my head against the wind, I stumbled over a crouching
figure, seeking to shelter itself a little from the storm under the lee
of the Spa wall.
I expected it to swear at me, but it seemed too broken-spirited to mind
anything.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "I did not see you."
At the sound of my voice it started to its feet.
"Is that you, old man?" it cried.
"McQuae!" I exclaimed.
"By Jove!" he said, "I was never so glad to see a man in all my life
before."
And he nearly shook my hand off.
"But what in thunder!" I said, "are you doing here? Why, you're drenched
to the skin."
He was dressed in flannels and a tennis-coat.
"Yes," he answered. "I never thought it would rain. It was a lovely
morning."