"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 Register. There is one among the many forms of despair--perhaps
the most pitiable of all--which persists in disguising itself as Hope.
Wilding checked himself in the act of throwing the useless morsel of
paper out of the carriage window. "It may lead to something yet," he
thought. "While I live, I won't part with it. When I die, my executors
shall find it sealed up with my will."

Now, the mention of his will set the good wine-merchant on a new track of
thought, without diverting his mind from its engrossing subject. He must
make his will immediately.

The application of the phrase No Thoroughfare to the case had originated
with Mr. Bintrey. In their first long conference following the
discovery, that sagacious personage had a hundred times repeated, with an
obstructive shake of the head, "No Thoroughfare, Sir, No Thoroughfare. My
belief is that there is no way out of this at this time of day, and my
advice is, make yourself comfortable where you are."