[Though Lyall gave a little derisive snort, and shot Eliot a somewhat disapproving (and yet somehow amused) look, he flipped his tail as if to say, "suit yourself". Then he set off, not at a lope, but at a trot. Eliot could surely keep up with that. Even werewolves in human form, in his own London, could keep up with that.

Maybe the man ought to have brought a horse. Ah, well.]