"

So the first stage of the journey was reached--and so it ended in No
Thoroughfare! After sending a note to Cripple Corner to inform his
partner that his absence might be prolonged for some hours, Wilding took
his place in the train, and started for the second stage on the
journey--Mrs. Miller's residence at Groombridge Wells.

Mothers and children travelled with him; mothers and children met each
other at the station; mothers and children were in the shops when he
entered them to inquire for Lime-Tree Lodge. Everywhere, the nearest and
dearest of human relations showed itself happily in the happy light of
day. Everywhere, he was reminded of the treasured delusion from which he
had been awakened so cruelly--of the lost memory which had passed from
him like a reflection from a glass.

Inquiring here, inquiring there, he could hear of no such place as Lime-
Tree Lodge. Passing a house-agent's office, he went in wearily, and put
the question for the last time. The house-agent pointed across the
street to a dreary mansion of many windows, which might have been a
manufactory, but which was an hotel. "That's where Lime-Tree Lodge
stood, sir," said the man, "ten years ago."

The second stage reached, and No Thoroughfare again!

But one chance was left. The clerical reference, Mr. Harker, still
remained to be found. Customers coming in at the moment to occupy the
house-agent's attention, Wilding went down the street, and entering a
bookseller's shop, asked if he could be informed of the Reverend John
Harker's present address.

The bookseller looked unaffectedly shocked and astonished, and made no
answer.

Wilding repeated his question.

The bookseller took up from his counter a prim little volume in a binding
of sober gray. He handed it to his visitor, open at the title-page.
Wilding read:

"The martyrdom of the Reverend John Harker in New Zealand. Related by a
former member of his flock."

Wilding put the book down on the counter. "I beg your pardon," he said
thinking a little, perhaps, of his own present martyrdom while he spoke.
The silent bookseller acknowledged the apology by a bow. Wilding went
out.

Third and last stage, and No Thoroughfare for the third and last time.

There was nothing more to be done; there was absolutely no choice but to
go back to London, defeated at all points. From time to time on the
return journey, the wine-merchant looked at his copy of the entry in the
Foundling