ould try to draw the man out,
pitting my wits against his.

I proceeded to do so. He was very voluble in a quiet way. Before long I
was in possession of all the materials for an exhaustive biography of
him. And the strange thing was that I could not, with the best will in
the world, believe that he was lying to me. I had never heard a man
telling so obviously the truth. And the truth about any one, however
commonplace, must always be interesting. Indeed, it is the commonplace
truth--the truth of widest application--that is the most interesting of
all truths.

I do not now remember many details of this man's story; I remember
merely that he was 'travelling in lace,' that he had been born at
Boulogne (this was the one strange feature of the narrative), that
somebody had once left him L100 in a will, and that he had a little
daughter who was 'as pretty as a pink.' But at the time I was
enthralled. Besides, I liked the man immensely. He was a kind and
simple soul, utterly belying his appearance. I wondered how I ever
could have feared him and hated him. Doubtless, the reaction from my
previous state intensified the kindliness of my feelings. Anyhow, my
heart went out to him. I felt that we had known each other for many
years. While he poured out his recollections I felt that he was an old
crony, talking over old days which were mine as well as his. Little by
little, however, the slumber which he had scared from me came hovering
back. My eyelids drooped; my comments on his stories became few and
muffled. 'There!' he said, 'you're sleepy. I ought to have thought of
that.' I protested feebly. He insisted kindly. 'You go to sleep,' he
said, rising and drawing the hood over the lamp. It was dawn when I
awoke. Some one in a top-hat was standing over me and saying 'Euston.'
'Euston?' I repeated. 'Yes, this is Euston. Good day to you.' 'Good day
to you,' I repeated mechanically, in the grey dawn.

Not till I was driving through the cold empty streets did I remember
the episode of the night, and who it was that had awoken me. I wished I
could see my friend again. It was horrible to think that perhaps I
should never see him again. I had liked him so much, and he had seemed
to like me. I should not have said that he was a happy man. There was
something melancholy about him. I hoped he would prosper. I had a
foreboding that some great calamity was in store for him, and wished I
could avert it. I thought of his little daughter who wa