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
north-west. Soon he found himself in streets that echoed to his
footsteps, and crossing a broad new thoroughfare, 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 cobble-stones, 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 precedence with comic songs, and story papers
with appalling cuts showed that romance claimed its place beside the
actualities of the evening paper, the bills of which fluttered at the
doorway. Dyson glanced up at the name above the door, and stood by the
kennel trembling, for a sharp pang, the pang of one who has made a
discovery, had for a moment left him incapable of motion. The name over
the shop was Travers. Dyson looked up again, this time at the corner of
the wall above the lamp-post, and read in white letters on a blue ground
the words 'Handel Street, W. C.,' and the legend was repeated in fainter
letters just below. He gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and without
more ado walked boldly into the shop, and stared full in the face the
fat man who was sitting behind the