The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

It was a fine, warm night, and there were plenty of people about. They were mostly in evening dress, some coming out of restaurants, others strolling up the steps of clubs. Fleeting visions of women, cloaked and smiling, flashed by in hansom cabs. It was familiar enough to Samuel Burton though it was some years since he walked up St. James' street, and along Piccadilly. Here were the old landmarks still, the clubs he had known back in his youth. As he sauntered along as if to the manner born, he made out more than one figure which was known to him. They were slightly changed, it is true, but Burton knew most of them. He smiled as he wondered, what they would say if they knew he was so close at hand. He had belonged to some of those very clubs, and, if he shut his eyes, could conjure up the old rooms. In imagination he could hear the stereotyped chatter on sport and play and women.

He looked like one of them, too, as he strode along the broad pavement. He was well-dressed, and well set up, and might have passed for a man of position, or a retired officer with a clean life and a clear conscience, who was going to his club to pass an hour or so away.