o and fro of porters, wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans,
the hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant roar of London,
awaking, and finding its way about heavily, like an angry old giant in
the fog--all seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares
which came to him now with exhausting frequency.

As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed off. So, holding
the Infant of Prague in its canvas case in one hand, and the bag
containing his manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon the
platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush to pass by, the
nightmare to be over.

Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down the platform. He
paused at once, with the ready and attentive courtesy of the London
railway official.

"Any luggage, Mr. West?" he asked, lifting his cap.

"No, thank you," replied Ronnie, "not to-day."

He knew he had luggage somewhere--heaps of it. But what was the good of
hunting up luggage in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth
retrieving. Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion
leaves off tormenting you.

"Have you come from the Hook, sir?" inquired the inspector.

"Yes," said Ronnie. "Did you think I had come from the Eye?"

He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing one
says in a nightmare.

The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned, looking rather
searchingly at Ronnie.

Ronnie thought it well to explain further. "As a matter of fact, my
friend," he said, "I have come from Central Africa, where I have been
sitting round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices, and
other interesting creatures. I am writing a book about it--the best
thing I have done yet."

The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie's books. He smiled
uneasily. Asps and cockatrices sounded queer company.

"Won't you have a cup of coffee, sir, before going out into the fog?"
he suggested.

"Ah--good idea!" said Ronnie; and made his way to the refreshment room.

It was empty at this early hour, and quiet. All the people with rushing
feet and vaguely busy faces had breakfasted at a still earlier hour, in
their own cosy homes. Their wives had made their coffee. To-morrow Helen
would pour out his coffee. It seemed an almost unbelievably happy
thought. How came such rapture to be connected with coffee?

He spent a minute or two in deciding at which of the many little marble
tables he would sit. He