curious part of it is that you should have had to go to
Chatto's, and should have learnt the lady's name so promptly from her
husband! Mathematically there were untold chances that this lady who
recognised me might be some stranger's wife, and that we might never more
hear anything of her! Yet you discover her identity at once. This is the
kind of thing which occasionally occurs in novels, but which critics say
never happens in real life. Well, now we know the contrary.'

And he added gaily, 'You see it is another instance of my good luck,
which still attends me in spite of all the striving of those who bear me
grudges.'

So far as the ladies were concerned things were, indeed, very
satisfactory. But the same could hardly be said of the position at the
Grosvenor. Neither M. Zola nor M. Desmoulin could leave the hotel or
return to it without being scrutinised. They had also noticed many a
glance in their direction at meal-time in the dining-room; and they had
come to the conclusion that departure was imperative. I did not gainsay
them, for I shared their views, and, in fact, I had already discussed the
matter with Wareham. I explained, however, that one must have a few hours
to devise suitable plans.

Seaside places were dangerous at that time of the year, and the best
course would probably be to take a furnished house in the country.
Meantime, said I, Wareham had kindly offered to accommodate M. Zola at
his residence at Wimbledon, while M. Desmoulin might sleep close by at
the house of Mr. Everson (Wareham's managing clerk), who also disposed of
a spare bedroom. Further discussion of these matters was postponed,
however, until Wareham's arrive at the Grosvenor in the afternoon.

As Zola and Desmoulin both distrusted the inquisitive glances of the
visitors and the attendants at the hotel, we lunched, I remember, at a
restaurant in or near Victoria Street--a deep, narrow place, crowded with
little tables. And here again M. Zola, in his light garments, with the
rosette of the Legion of Honour showing brightly in his buttonhole,
became the observed of all observers.

He was, indeed, so conspicuous, so characteristic a figure that, looking
backward and remembering how repeatedly the illustrated papers had
portrayed him and how many photographs of him were to be seen in shop
windows, I often wonder how it happened that he was not recognised a
hundred times during those few days spent in London. It may be that many
did r