agent of some one
unknown,--possibly of the individual styled Q., who had been forced to
visit his French friends. But what to make of "Traverse Handel S.?"
Here was the root and source of the enigma, and not all the tobacco of
Virginia seemed likely to suggest any clew here. It seemed almost
hopeless; but Dyson regarded himself as the Wellington of mysteries,
and went to bed feeling assured that sooner or later he would hit upon
the right track. For the next few days he was deeply engaged in his
literary labours,--labours which were a profound mystery even to the
most intimate of his friends, who searched the railway bookstalls in
vain for the result of so many hours spent at the Japanese bureau in
company with strong tobacco and black tea. On this occasion Dyson
confined himself to his room for four days, and it was with genuine
relief that he laid down his pen and went out into the streets in quest
of relaxation and fresh air. The gas lamps were being lighted, and the
fifth edition of the evening papers was being howled through the
streets; and Dyson, feeling that he wanted quiet, turned away from the
clamorous Strand, and began to trend away to the northwest. Soon he
found himself in streets that echoed to his foot-steps; and crossing a
broad new throughfare, and verging still to the west, Dyson discovered
that he had penetrated to the depths of Soho. Here again was life; rare
vintages of France and Italy, at prices which seemed contemptibly
small, allured the passer-by; here were cheeses, vast and rich; here
olive oil, and here a grove of Rabelaisian sausages; while in a
neighbouring shop the whole press of Paris appeared to be on sale. In
the middle of the roadway a strange miscellany of nations sauntered to
and fro; for there cab and hansom rarely ventured, and from window over
window the inhabitants looked forth in pleased contemplation of the
scene. Dyson made his way slowly along, mingling with the crowd on the
cobblestones, listening to the queer babel of French and German and
Italian and English, glancing now and again at the shop windows with
their levelled batteries of bottles, and had almost gained the end of
the street, when his attention was arrested by a small shop at the
corner, a vivid contrast to its neighbours. It was the typical shop of
the poor quarter, a shop entirely English. Here were vended tobacco and
sweets, cheap pipes of clay and cherry wood; penny exercise-books and
penholders jostled for