gle, the sun had broken through the heavy
clouds. He was attired in the ordinary dress of an English gentleman;
but once, when he raised his head to see if it rained, Andrew noticed
that he only wore a woollen shirt, without a necktie. As a rule, his
well-trimmed, venerable beard hid this from view.

He seemed a man of unostentatious means. Andrew lost him in Drury Lane
and found him again in Piccadilly. He was generally alone, never twice
with the same person. His business was scattered, or it was his
pleasure that kept him busy. He struck the observer as always being on
the outlook for someone who did not come.

Why attempt to account for the nameless fascination he exercised over
the young Scotchman? We speak lightly of mesmeric influence, but,
after all, there is only one mesmerist for youth--a good woman or a
good man. Depend upon it, that is why so many "mesmerists" have
mistaken their vocation. Andrew took to prowling about the streets
looking for this man, like a dog that has lost its master.

The day came when they met.

Andrew was returning from the Crystal Palace, which he had been viewing
from the outside. He had walked both ways. Just as he rounded the
upper end of Chancery Lane, a man walking rapidly struck against him,
whirled him aside, and hurried on.

The day was done, but as yet the lamps only dimmed the streets.

Andrew had been dreaming, and the jerk woke him to the roar of London.

It was as if he had taken his fingers from his ears.

He staggered, dazed, against a 'bus-horse, but the next moment he was
in pursuit of the stranger. It was but a continuation of his dream.
He felt that something was about to happen. He had never seen this man
disturbed before.

Chancery Lane swarmed with lawyers, but if they had not made way Andrew
would have walked over them.

He clove his way between those walking abreast, and struck down an arm
extended to point out the Law Courts. When he neared the stranger, he
slightly slackened his pace, but it was a stampede even then.

Suddenly the pursued came to a dead stop and gazed for twenty minutes
in at a pastry-cook's window. Andrew waited for him. Then they
started off again, much more leisurely.

They turned Chancery Lane almost together. All this time Andrew had
failed to catch sight of the other's face.

He stopped twice in the Strand for a few minutes.

At Charing Cross he seemed for a moment at a loss. Then he sprang
across the