delirium possessed him. Every resolution notwithstanding, he yielded
to London's grossest lures. All he could remember, was a succession
of extravagances, beneath a sunless sky, with chance companions
whose faces he had forgotten five minutes after parting with them.
Sovereign after sovereign melted out of his hand; the end of the
second week found his capital diminished by some five-and-twenty
pounds. In an hour of physical and moral nausea, he packed his
travelling-bag. journeyed to Newhaven, and as a sort of penance,
crossed the Channel by third-class passage. Arrived in Paris, he
felt himself secure, and soon recovered sanity.

Thanks to his studious habits, he was equipped with book-French;
now, both for economy's sake and for his mental advantage, he
struggled with the spoken language, and so far succeeded as to lodge
very cheaply in a rather disreputable hotel, and to eat at
restaurants where dinner of several courses cost two francs and a
half. His life was irreproachable; he studied the Paris of art and
history. But perforce he remained companionless, and solitude had
begun to weigh upon him.

This morning, whilst he sat over his bowl of coffee and _petit
pain_, a certain recollection haunted him persistently. Yesterday,
in turning out his pockets, he had come upon a scrap of paper,
whereon was written:

"93, Belmont Street, Chalk Farm Road, London, N.W."

This formula it was which now kept running through his mind, like a
refrain which will not be dismissed.