of him. And the strange thing was that I could not, with the best will
in the world, believe that he was lying to me. I had never heard a man
telling so obviously the truth. And the truth about any one, however
commonplace, must always be interesting. Indeed, it is the commonplace
truth--the truth of widest application--that is the most interesting
of all truths.

I do not now remember many details of this man's story; I remember
merely that he was `travelling in lace,' that he had been born at
Boulogne (this was the one strange feature of the narrative), that
somebody had once left him œ100 in a will, and that he had a little
daughter who was `as pretty as a pink.' But at the time I was
enthralled. Besides, I liked the man immensely. He was a kind and
simple soul, utterly belying his appearance. I wondered how I ever
could have feared him and hated him. Doubtless, the reaction from my
previous state intensified the kindliness of my feelings. Anyhow, my
heart went out to him. I felt that we had known each other for many
years. While he poured out his recollections I felt that he was an old
crony, talking over old days which were mine as well as his. Little by
little, however, the slumber which he had scared from me came hovering
back. My eyelids drooped; my comments on his stories became few and
muffled. `There!' he said, `you're sleepy. I ought to have thought of
that.' I protested feebly. He insisted kindly. `You go to sleep,' he
said, rising and drawing the hood over the lamp. It was dawn when I
awoke. Some one in a top-hat was standing over me and saying `Euston.'
`Euston?' I repeated. `Yes, this is Euston. Good day to you.' `Good
day to you,' I repeated mechanically, in the grey dawn.

Not till I was driving through the cold empty streets did I remember
the episode of the night, and who it was that had awoken me. I wished