ed noisily over the uneven granite paving of the big
square. Opposite the Post Office the arc lamps were shedding a bright
light outside the theatre, while all the shops around were a blaze of
light, while on every side the streets were agog with life.

Up and down the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance of the
Post Office hundreds of people ascended and descended, passing and
re-passing the four swing-doors which gave entrance to the huge hall with
its dozens of departments ranged around and its partitioned desks for
writing.

The mails from France and England were just in, and dozens of men came
with their keys to obtain their correspondence from the range of private
boxes, and as I watched, the whole bustle of business life passed before
me.

I was keeping a sharp eye upon all who passed up and down that long
flight of granite steps, but at that hour of the evening, and in that
crowd, it was no easy matter.

Would I be successful? That was the one thought which filled my mind.

As I stood there, my eager gaze upon that endless stream of people, I
felt wearied and fagged. The Channel crossing had been a bad one, as it
so often is in January, and I had not yet recovered from my weird
experience at Colchester. The heavy overcoat I wore was, I found, not
proof against the cutting east wind which swept around the corner from
the Boulevard Auspach, hence I was compelled to change my position and
seek shelter in a doorway opposite the point where I expected the man I
sought would enter.

I had already surveyed the interior and presented the card of a friend to
an official at the Poste Restante, though I knew there was no letter for
him. I uttered some words of politeness to the man in order to make his
acquaintance, as he might, perhaps, be of use to me ere my quest was at
an end.

At the Poste Restante were two windows, one distributing correspondence
for people whose surname began with the letters A to L, and the other
from M to Z.

It was at the first window I inquired, the clerk there being a pleasant,
fair-haired, middle-aged man in a holland coat as worn by postal
employees. I longed to ask him if he had any letters for the name of
Bryant, or if any Englishman of that name had called, but I dared not do
so. He would, no doubt, snub me and tell me to mind my own business.

So instead, I was extremely polite, regretted to have troubled him, and,
raising my hat, withdrew.

I saw that to remain wi