our way. Then, on passing the Alexandra Road, I explained to Desmoulin
that he would sleep there, at No. 20, where Wareham has a local office
and where his managing clerk, Everson by name, resides.

The arrangement with Wareham had been concluded so precipitately that, to
spare him unnecessary trouble at home, we had arranged to dine that
evening at a local restaurant--in fact, the only restaurant possessed by
Wimbledon. Wareham was to join us there. The proprietor, Mr. Genoni, is
of foreign origin, but Wareham knowing him personally had assured me that
even should he suspect our friend's identity his discretion might readily
be relied upon. And so the sequel proved. During our repast, however, I
felt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and I
therefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent as
possible.

After dinner we adjourned to Wareham's house in Prince's Road, where Mrs.
Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes. The
conversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding some
suitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile. He,
himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that he
suggested renting a furnished house there. This seemed a trifle
dangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to be
gainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required,
had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on the
morrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and drive
round to visit such places as might seem suitable.

It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham's to escort Desmoulin
to the Alexandra Road. I there left him in charge of his host, Mr.
Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover's Walk,