As he came to the busy crossing, he raised his head and looked around him.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "my eyes have been closed.

Perhaps there are things to be seen." He called a taxicab and, giving the man some muttered directions, was driven slowly down the Strand, looking eagerly first on one side of the way and then on the other.

It was approaching the luncheon hour and the streets were thronged.

Here seemed to be the meeting place of the Colonial troops,--long, sinewy men, many of them, with bronzed faces and awkward gait.

They elbowed their way along, side by side with the queerest collection of people in the world.