His evil genius took him down St.James Street.

He tried to persuade himself that it was the shortest way, though he knew all the time that it wasn't.

And so he was punished in this way: he had got no further than Crockford's, when, in the glare of light opposite the door of that establishment, he saw three men standing, one of whom was talking and laughing in a tone perhaps a little louder than it is customary to use in the streets nowadays.

Buckley knew that voice well (better, perhaps, among the crackle of musketry than in the streets of London), and, as the broad-shouldered owner of it turned his jolly, handsome face towards him, he could not suppress a low laugh of satisfaction.

At the same moment the before-mentioned man recognised him, and shouted out his name.
"Busaco Buckley, by the Lord," he said, "revisiting once more the glimpses of the gas-lamps! My dear old fellow, how are you, and where do you come from ?" The Major found himself quickly placed under a lamp for inspection, and surrounded by three old and well-beloved fellow-campaigners.