ness was the Thames Embankment. I have passed many years
in London since then, and must have heard the boom of Big Ben and the
monotonous musical chime which precedes it many thousands of times. They
have rarely greeted a conscious ear without bringing back a memory of
the stealing river (all dull shine and deep shadow), the lights on the
spanning bridges, the dim murmur of distant traffic, the shot-tower
glooming up against the sky, the bude-light flaring from the tower of
the Palace of Parliament, the sordid homeless folks huddled together
on the benches, the solemn tramp of the peeler, and the flash of the
bullseye light that awoke the chilled and stiffened sleepers. There is a
certain odour of Thames Embankment which I should recognise anywhere. I
have encountered it often, and it brings back the scene as suddenly and
as vividly as the chimes themselves.

There is plenty of elbow-room in the Hotel de la Belle Etoile, and there
is water enough; but in other respects the provision it offers is scanty
and comfortless. I spent four days and nights in it, and was on the
borders of despair, when what looked like a mere chance saved me.
Suppose I had not walked down Fleet Street; suppose I had not stopped
to look at the little cork balls in Lipscombe's window, so mournfully
emblematic of my own condition; suppose that the unsuspected
good-hearted friend had not come by and clapped me on the shoulder, what
would have happened? _Quien sabe?_ These are the narrow chances of
life which give one pause sometimes. He came, however, the unsuspected
helpful friend.

It was John Lovel, then manager of the Press Association. I have since
had reason to believe that he deliberately deceived me from the first
moment of our encounter, and that later in the day he was guilty of a
plagiarism. If deceit were always as kindly and guileless, lying would
grow to be the chief of human virtues; and if plagiarism always covered
a jest so generous, the plagiarist would be amongst the most popular men
alive.

Was I busy? he asked. Was I too busy to undertake for him a very
pressing piece of work he had on hand? I made an effort not to seem
quite overborne, and told him that I was entirely at his service. He
said (I suppose it was the first thing he could think of) that to-morrow
was the anniversary of the birthday of Christopher Columbus. He wanted
an article about that event for a country paper and had no time to write
it He wanted no dates, no