It was only France, after all, that was real.
"That journey of ours," explained Colville, vaguely, "has made an extraordinary difference.

The whole party is aroused and in deadly earnest now." Barebone made no answer, and they walked on in meditative silence toward the roadside inn, which stood up against the southern sky a few hundred yards ahead.
"In fact," Colville added, after a silence, "the ball is at your feet, Barebone.

There can be no looking back now." And again Barebone made no answer.

It was a tacit understanding, then.
For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, while Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he found slumbering in the wide chimney corner before a log fire.

From Ipswich to London, and thus on to Newhaven, they journeyed pleasantly enough in company, for they were old companions of the road, and Colville's unruffled good humour made him an easy comrade for travel even in days when the idea of comfort reconciled with speed had not suggested itself to the mind of man.
Such, indeed, was his foresight that he had brought with him to London, and there left awaiting further need of it, that personal baggage which Loo had perforce left behind him at the Hotel Gemosac in Paris.
They made but a brief halt in London, where Colville admitted gaily that he had no desire to be seen.
"I might meet my tailor in Piccadilly," he said.