n the neighbourhood a church bell was
pealing. Presently footsteps hurried along the corridor, and an
impatient voice shouted repeatedly, "Alphonse! Alphonse!"

He was in Paris; had been there for six weeks, and now awoke with a
sense of loneliness, a desire to be back among his own people.

In London he had spent only a fortnight. It was not a time that he
cared to reflect upon. No sooner had he found himself in the
metropolis, alone and free, with a pocketful of money, than a delirium
possessed him. Every resolution notwithstanding, he yielded to London's
grossest lures. All he could remember, was a succession of
extravagances, beneath a sunless sky, with chance companions whose
faces he had forgotten five minutes after parting with them. Sovereign
after sovereign melted out of his hand; the end of the second week
found his capital diminished by some five-and-twenty pounds. In an hour
of physical and moral nausea, he packed his travelling-bag, journeyed
to Newhaven, and as a sort of penance, crossed the Channel by
third-class passage. Arrived in Paris, he felt himself secure, and soon
recovered sanity.

Thanks to his studious habits, he was equipped with book-French; now,
both for economy's sake and for his mental advantage, he struggled with
the spoken language, and so far succeeded as to lodge very cheaply in a
rather disreputable hotel, and to eat at restaurants where dinner of
several courses cost two francs and a half. His life was
irreproachable; he studied the Paris of art and history. But perforce
he remained companionless, and solitude had begun to weigh upon him.

This morning, whilst he sat over his bowl of coffee and _petit pain_, a
certain recollection haunted him persistently. Yesterday, in turning
out his pockets, he had come upon a scrap of paper, whereon was written:

"93, Belmont Street, Chalk Farm Road, London, N.W."

This formula it was which now kept running through his mind, like a
refrain which will not be dismissed.

He reproached himself for neglect of his promise to Mrs. Brewer. More
than that, he charged himself with foolish disregard of a possibility
which might have boundless significance for him. Here, it seemed, was
sufficient motive for a return to London. The alternative was to wander
on, and see more of foreign countries; a tempting suggestion, but
marred by the prospect of loneliness. He would go back among his own
people and make friends. Without comradeship, liberty had litt