You won't mind if Jenkins joins us?"
"Who's Jenkins?" I asked.
"Jenkins is an intelligent gas-fitter of Sociological tastes. He classes
Herbert Spencer, Benjamin Kidd, and Lombroso as light literature. He
also helps us with our young criminals. I should like you to meet him."
"I should be delighted," I said.
So Jenkins was summoned from a little knot a few yards off and duly
presented. Whereupon we proceeded to Campion's plain but comfortably
furnished quarters in Barbara's Building, where he entertained us till
nearly midnight with cold beef and cheese and strenuous conversation.
As I walked across Westminster Bridge on my homeward way it seemed as
if London had grown less hostile. Big Ben chimed twelve and there was a
distinct Dick Whittington touch about the music. The light on the
tower no longer mocked me. As I passed by the gates of Palace Yard,
a policeman on duty recognised me and saluted. I strode on with a
springier tread and noticed that the next policeman who did not know me,
still regarded me with an air of benevolence.
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