ase, good-bye. I am very glad to have seen you. If you should be
passing the Museum I hope you will drop in. You know my hours, I think?"

"I shall be very glad to do so," I answered, and thereupon we parted
with the first shadow of a cloud between us that our lives had seen. On
reviewing our conversation afterward I could recall nothing that should
have occasioned it; nevertheless, there it was, "that little rift within
the lute," as Tennyson says, "which by and by would make the music
mute."

After we had parted, I crossed the road and walked by way of Dover
Street to my studio. Scarcely two months had elapsed since that fatal
day when I had left it to go in search of Pharos, and yet those eight
weeks seemed like years. So long did I seem to have been away that I
almost expected to find a change in the houses of the street, and when
I passed the curiosity shop at the corner where the murder had taken
place--that terrible tragedy which had been the primary cause of my
falling into Pharos's power--it was with a sensible feeling of surprise
I found the windows still decorated with the same specimens of china,
and the shop still carrying on its trade under the name of Clausand. I
turned the corner and crossed the road. Instinctively my hand went into
my pocket and produced the latchkey. I tapped it twice against the
right-hand pillar of the door, just as I had been in the habit of doing
for years, and inserted it in the lock. A few seconds later I had let
myself in and was standing amongst my own _lares_ and _penates_ once
more. Everything was just as I had left it; the clock was ticking on the
mantelpiece, not a speck of dirt or dust was upon chair or china;
indeed, the only thing that served to remind me that I had been away at
all was the pile of letters which had been neatly arranged upon my
writing-table. These I opened, destroyed what were of no importance, and
placed the rest in my pocket to be answered at a more convenient
opportunity. Then, leaving a note upon my table to inform my servant
that I had returned, and would call again on the following morning, I
let myself out, locked the door, and returned to Piccadilly _en route_
to Park Lane.

A great writer has mentioned somewhere that the gravest issues are often
determined by the most insignificant trifles. As I have just remarked, I
had, in this instance, made up my mind to return to Park Lane, in the
hope that I might be able to induce Valerie to take a str