And then, into his stuffy room, slipped the singing perfume of a
wall-flower on a ruined tower, and with it the sweetness of hot ivy. He
heard the "yellow bees in the ivy bloom." Wind whipped over the open
hills--this very wind that laboured drearily through the London fog.

And--he was caught. The darkness melted from the city. The fog whisked
off into an azure sky. The roar of traffic turned into booming of the
sea. There was a whistling among cordage, and the floor swayed to and
fro. He saw a sailor touch his cap and pocket the two-franc piece. The
syren hooted--ominous sound that had started him on many a journey of
adventure--and the roar of London became mere insignificant clatter of a
child's toy carriages.

He loved that syren's call; there was something deep and pitiless in it.
It drew the wanderers forth from cities everywhere: "Leave your known
world behind you, and come with me for better or for worse! The anchor
is up; it is too late to change. Only--beware! You shall know curious
things--and alone!"

Henriot stirred uneasily in his chair. He turned with sudden energy to
the shelf of guide-books, maps and time-tables--possessions he most
valued in the whole room. He was a happy-go-lucky, adventure-loving
soul, careless of common standards, athirst ever for the new and
strange.

"That's the best of having a cheap flat," he laughed, "and no ties in
the world. I can turn the key and disappear. No one cares or knows--no
one but the thieving caretaker. And he's long ago found out that there's
nothing here worth taking!"