, a frore
whitish mist that saturated him with a malignant chill. Michael was glad
to find himself looking at the dolphin-headed knocker of 173 Cheyne
Walk. The effect of being in his own bedroom again, even though the
girls' shoes lay fantastically upon the floor, was at first to make him
believe that Tinderbox Lane might have been a dream, and after that,
because he knew it was not a dream, to wonder about it.

Yet not even now in this austere and icy bedroom of his own could
Michael feel that there was anything really wrong about that small
house. It still preserved for him an illusion of sobriety and stability,
almost of primness, yet of being rich with a demure gaiety. Mrs.
Gainsborough, however, was scarcely a chaperone. Nor was she very
demure. And who was Sylvia? And what was Lily doing there? It would have
been mysterious, that household, in any case, but was it necessary to
assume that there was anything wrong? Sylvia was obviously a girl of
high spirits. He had asked her no questions about herself. She might be
on the stage. For fun, or perhaps because of their landlady's kindling
stories, Sylvia might have persuaded Lily to come once or twice to the
Orient. It did not follow that there was anything wrong. There had been
nothing wrong in that carnival. Michael's heart leaped with the fancy
that he was not too late. That would indeed crown this romantic night;
and, picking up Lily's shoe, he held it for a while, wondering about its
secrets.

In the morning the fog had turned to a drench of dull January rain; but
Michael greeted the outlook as cheerfully as if it had been perfect May
weather. He went first to a post office to send off the money he had
promised to Mrs. Smith and the Solutionist. After this discharge of
business, he felt more cheerful than ever, and, as if to capture the
final touch of fantasy necessary to bewitch yesterday night, he suddenly
realized, when he was hurrying along Fulham Road in the rain, that he
had no idea of the number of Mrs. Gainsborough's house. He also began to
wonder if there really could be such a place as Tinderbox Lane, and as
he walked on without discovering any indication of its existence, he
wondered if Sylvia had invented the name, so that he might never find
her and Lily again. It was an uneasy thought, for without a number and
without a name--but just as he was planning an elaborate way to discover
the real name of the street, he saw in front of him Tinderbox Lane