nothing had been forgotten, nothing at all. He went out into the
front hall, firmly determined never to think again of all that
had happened to him in these rooms. And all at once his eyes fell
on half a sheet of foolscap, which somehow had got wedged between
the wall and the telephone; the paper was covered with writing,
evidently the writing of more persons than one. Some of the
entries were written quite legibly with pen and ink, while others
were scribbled with a lead-pencil; here and there even a red pencil
had been used. It was a record of everything that had happened to
him in the short period of two years; all these things, which he
had made up his mind to forget, were noted down. It was a slice of
a human life on half a sheet of foolscap.

He detached the paper; it was a piece of scribbling paper, yellow
and shining like the sun. He put it on the mantelpiece in the
drawing-room and glanced at it. Heading the list was a woman's name:
"Alice," the most beautiful name in the world, as it had seemed
to him then, for it was the name of his fiancee. Next to the name
was a number, "15,11." It looked like the number of a hymn, on the
hymn-board. Underneath was written "Bank." That was where his work
lay, his sacred work to which he owed bread, home, and wife--the
foundations of life. But a pen had been drawn through the word, for
the Bank had failed, and although he had eventually found another
berth, it was not until after a short period of anxiety and
uneasiness.

The next entries were: "Flower-shop and livery-stable." They related
to his betrothal, when he had plenty of money in his pockets.

Then came "furniture dealer and paper-hanger "--they were furnishing