even
amid the excitement of an audacious enterprise.

If I dwell upon my appreciation of this occasion it is because, like
most pleasures, it was exceedingly short-lived. I was very comfortable
at the Star and Garter, which was so empty that I had a room worthy of
a prince, where I could enjoy the finest of all views (in patriotic
opinion) every morning while I shaved. I walked many miles through the
noble park, over the commons of Ham and Wimbledon, and one day as far
as that of Esher, where I was forcibly reminded of a service we once
rendered to a distinguished resident in this delightful locality. But
it was on Ham Common, one of the places which Raffles had mentioned as
specially desirable, that I actually found an almost ideal retreat.
This was a cottage where I heard, on inquiry, that rooms were to be let
in the summer. The landlady, a motherly body, of visible excellence,
was surprised indeed at receiving an application for the winter months;
but I have generally found that the title of "author," claimed with
an air, explains every little innocent irregularity of conduct or
appearance, and even requires something of the kind to carry conviction
to the lay intelligence. The present case was one in point, and when I
said that I could only write in a room facing north, on mutton chops
and milk, with a cold ham in the wardrobe in case of nocturnal
inspiration, to which I was liable, my literary character was
established beyond dispute. I secured the rooms, paid a month's rent
in advance at my own request, and moped in them dreadfully until the
week was up and Raffles due any day. I explained that the inspiration
would not come, and asked abruptly if the mutton was New Zealand.

Thrice had I made fruitless inquiries at the Richmond post-office; but
on the tenth day I was in and out almost every hour. Not a word was
there for me up to the last post at night. Home I trudged to Ham with
horrible forebodings, and back again to Richmond after breakfast next
morning. Still there was nothing. I could bear it no more. At ten
minutes to eleven I was climbing the station stairs at Earl's Court.

It was a wretched morning there, a weeping mist shrouding the long,
straight street, and clinging to one's face in clammy caresses. I felt
how much better it was down at Ham, as I turned into our side street,
and saw the flats looming like mountains, the chimney-pots hidden in
the mist. At our entrance stood