t the side of a shop. It stood open, and just
within was a sign: <i Bureau au premier.> I walked up narrow
stairs, and on the landing found a sort of box, glassed in,
within which were a desk and a couple of chairs. There was a
bench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porter
passed uneasy nights. There was no one about, but under an
electric bell was written <i Garcon.> I rang, and presently a
waiter appeared. He was a young man with furtive eyes and a
sullen look. He was in shirt-sleeves and carpet slippers.

I do not know why I made my enquiry as casual as possible.

"Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance?" I asked.

"Number thirty-two. On the sixth floor."

I was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer.

"Is he in?"

The waiter looked at a board in the <i bureau.>

"He hasn't left his key. Go up and you'll see."

I thought it as well to put one more question.

<i "Madame est la?">

<i "Monsieur est seul.">

The waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made my way upstairs.
They were dark and airless. There was a foul and
musty smell. Three flights up a Woman in a dressing-gown,
with touzled hair, opened a door and looked at me silently as
I passed. At length I reached the sixth floor, and knocked at
the door numbered thirty-two. There was a sound within, and
the door was partly opened. Charles Strickland stood before me.
He uttered not a word. He evidently did not know me.

I told him my name. I tried my best to assume an airy manner.

"You don't remember me. I had the pleasure of dining with you
last July."

"Come in," he said cheerily. "I'm delighted to see you.
Take a pew."

I entered. It was a very small room, overcrowded with
furniture of the style which the French know as Louis
Philippe. There was a large wooden bedstead on which was a
billowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe,
a round table, a very small washstand, and two stuffed chairs
covered with red rep. Everything was dirty and shabby.
There was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel MacAndrew
had so confidently described. Strickland threw on the floor the
clothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

In that small room he seemed even bigger than I remembered him.
He wore an old Norfolk jacket, and he had not shaved for
several days. When last I saw him he was spruce enough,
but he looked ill at ease: now, u