It was not long before we again met by chance. We came face to face at a
street corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. He
looked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand he
gave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faint
expression.

'I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring look. 'I am leaving
London.'

'For good?'

'I fear so, and yet'--he made an obvious effort--'I am glad of it. My
wife's health has not been very good lately. She has need of country air.
Yes, I am glad we have decided to go away--very glad--very glad indeed!'

He spoke with an automatic sort of emphasis, his eyes wandering, and his
hands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of the
country he had chosen for his retreat, when he abruptly added:

'I live just over there. Will you let me show you my books?'

Of course I gladly accepted the invitation, and a couple of minutes' walk
brought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floor
windows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, my
companion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me.

'I'm really afraid it isn't worth your while,' he said timidly. 'The fact
is, I haven't space to show my books properly.'