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It was the custom at the lodge for the whole troop to gather for a late breakfast in the main salon, so I waited until all had assembled, despatched a lackey to Kralta’s quarters with orders to pack my traps and send ’em to the station, strolled down with Lady Bountiful on my arm, and announced to the company that I was desolated to have to leave them that day, as urgent affairs in London demanded my attention (which was prophetic, if you like).

Kralta, seated in state by the fire with her toads clustered round stirring her chocolate for her, went pale; she was looking deuced fetching, I have to say, in a white fur robe which prompted happy memories of the Orient Express. I made my apologies, and her eyes were diamond-hard as she glanced from me to my buxom companion and then to the Prince (who was looking a shade worn, I thought), but she would not have been Kralta if she hadn’t responded with icy composure, regretting my departure without expression on that proud horse face. I kissed her hand, made my bow to the Prince, advised him to stick at it, saluted the company, and departed, with a last smile at the splendid white figure seated in state, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, inclining her head with the regal condescension she’d used at our first meeting. By and large I like to leave ’em happy, but I doubt if she was.

•   •   •

Three days later I was at Charing Cross Station on one of those damp, dismal evenings when the fog rolls inside the buildings and the heart of the returning traveller is gladdened by the sight and smell of it all, London with its grime and bustle and raucous inhabitants, and there ain’t a "Ja, mein Herr," to be heard, or a sullen Frog face, and not a plate of sauerkraut in sight. I could even listen with fair good humour to the harassed excuses of the Cockney porter carrying my valise as he protested that he didn’t knaow nuffink abaht the trunk, guv', ’cos ’Erbert ’ad gorn ter the guard’s van for it, and where the ’ell ’e’d got ter, Gawd ownly knew. Sid and Fred were appealed to, search parties were despatched, and ’Erbert was discovered in the left-luggage office, reclining on a lower shelf in a state of merry inebriation. My porter gave tongue blasphemously.

"I knoo the barstid was ’arf-seas over when ’e come on! Din' I say? Din' I? Well, ’e can pick up ’is money if the super sees ’im, an' chance it! Serve the bleeder right, an' all! I’m sorry, guv'! Look, I’ll whistle a cab for yer, and Sid an' Fred’ll ’ave yer trunk run dahn in no toime!"

It was music to my ears, and I dawdled patiently, drinking in the sights and sounds of home, and even chuckling at the sight of the semi-comatose ’Erbert leaving off his rendition of "Fifteen men onna dead man’s chest, yow-ow-ow an' a bottlarum" to assure my porter, whose name was Ginger, that ’e was a blurry good mate an' a jolly ole pal, before subsiding among the piled baggage.

"Stoopid sod!" cried Ginger. "Gawd knaows w’ere ’e’s put it! Doan’t worry, guv', we’ll foind it! ’Ere, Sid, wot trains is goin' aht jus' naow? Can’t ’ave the gen’man’s trunk bein' sent orf by mistake, can we?"

"Eight o’clock’s leavin' shortly f’m Platform Free!" said Sid.

"Jeesus wept, that’s the bleedin' boat train! Naow, ’e wouldn’t, would ’e? ’Ere, Fred, be a toff an' nip dahn to Free, jus' ter mike shore, an' we’ll ferret abaht rahnd the cab-stands an' that—jus' you wait, guv'! We’ll ’ave it in arf a tick!"

I continued to loiter as Fred set off for Platform Three, and just then a neat little bottom tripped past, making for the tea-room, and I sauntered idly after it, curious to see if the front view lived up to the trim ankles and waist. No more than that, but it changed my life, for as I strolled along my eye caught sight of "3" above a ticket gate, and I changed course to see how Fred was doing in his quest for my trunk. The train was within a few minutes of leaving, heavy bags were going into the guard’s van, and Fred was emerging, shaking his head—and at that moment I caught sight of a familiar face down the platform, and strolled along to make sure. He was carrying a bag, and making for a group of fellows standing by a carriage door. I hove up by him, grinning.

"Hollo, Joe!" says I. "Taken up portering, have you?"

He wheeled round, and absolutely almost dropped the bag in astonishment. "Good God—Flashman!" cries he. "Why—they’ve found you, then!"

"Found me! They can’t even find my blasted trunk! Here, what’s the matter? I ain’t a ghost, you know!"

For he was staring at me as though he couldn’t believe his eyes—or eye, rather, for he’d only one ogle, and it was wide in astonishment, which you didn’t often see in the imperturbable Garnet Wolseley.

"Stewart! He’s here!" cries he, to the men by the carriage, and as they turned to look my heart gave a lurch, and my stick fell clattering to the platform. The man addressed, tall, dark, and grinning all over his face, was striding forward to grip my hand—young Johnny Stewart, a Cherrypicker long after my time, but an old comrade from Egypt.

"Wherever did you spring from?" cries he. "Heavens, I’ve been turning the town upside down for you—at your clubs, your house, everywhere …"

But I wasn’t listening. I’d recognised the others at once—Cambridge, commander-in-chief of the Army, with his grey moustache and high balding head; Granville, the Foreign Secretary; and jumping down from the carriage and hastening towards me with his quick, neat step, hand outstretched and eyes bright with joy, the last man on earth I wanted to see, the man I’d left England to avoid at all costs: Chinese Charley Gordon.

"Flashman, old friend!" He was pumping my fin like a man possessed. "At the eleventh hour! Did you know—oh, but you must have, surely? Where have you been? Stewart and I had given up all hope!"

Somehow I found my voice. "I’ve been abroad. In Austria."

"Austria?" laughs he. "That ain’t abroad! I’ll tell you where’s abroad—Africa! That’s abroad!" He was grinning in disbelief. "You mean you didn’t know I was going back to Sudan?"

I shook my head, my innards like lead. "I’m this minute off the train from Calais—"

"The very place we’re bound for! Stewart and I are off to Suakim this very night! He’s my chief o' staff … and just guess—" he poked me in the chest "—who I’ve been moving heaven and earth to have as my intelligence bimbashi! Isn’t that so, Garnet? But you were nowhere to be found—and now you drop from the skies! … and you never even knew I was going out!"

"’Twasn’t confirmed until today, after all," says Joe.

"If Flashman had been in Town, he’d ha' caught the scent a week ago!" cries Gordon. "Eyes and ears like a dervish scout, he lifts! I low d’ye think he’s here? He knew by instinct the game was afoot, didn’t you, old fellow? My word, and I thought only we HreIandmen had the second sight!" He stepped closer, and his eyes held that barmy mystic glitter that told me God was going to he hauled into the conversation. "Providence guided you … aye, guided you to this very platform! Don’t let anyone try to tell me there’s nothing in the power of prayer!"

If there had been I’d have been back in Austria that minute, or m Wales or Paisley even—anywhere away from this dangerous maniac gripping my sleeve and not letting me get a word in edge-wise. I shot a wild glance at the others: Cambridge pop-eyed, Granville smiling but puzzled, Stewart alert and wondering, and only Joe having the grace to frown and chew his lip. I was speech-less at the effrontery of the thing, but Gordon, of course, couldn’t Nee an inch beyond what he thought was a priceless stroke of luck, the selfish hound. It was famous, the happiest of omens … and tit last I found my tongue.

"But I’ve just arrived—I’m going home!" I protested, and any normal man would have been checked for a moment at least, but not Gordon, drunk with enthusiasm.