It was then that he told me the story of which I have already related
in these chronicles:[A] how he was scouring France in a ramshackle
automobile as the peripatetic vendor of a patent corn cure and found a
babe of nine months lying abandoned in the middle of that silent road
through the wilderness between Salon and Arles; how instead of
delivering it over to the authorities, he adopted it and carried it
about with him from town to town, a motor accessory sometimes
embarrassing, but always divinely precious; how an evil day came upon
him at Aix-en-Provence when, the wheezing automobile having uttered
its last gasp, he found his occupation gone; how, no longer being able
to care for _le petit_ Jean, he left him with a letter and half his
fortune outside the door of a couple of English maiden ladies who,
staying in the same hotel, had manifested great interest in the baby
and himself; and how, in the dead of the night, he had tramped away
from Aix-en-Provence in the rain, his pockets light and his heart as
heavy as lead.

[A] The Adventures of the Foundling.

"And I have never heard of my little Jean again," said Aristide.

"Why didn't you write?" I asked.

"I knew their names, Honeywood; Miss Janet was the elder, Miss Anne the
younger. But the name of the place they lived at I have never been able
to remember. It was near London--they used to come up by train to
matinees and afternoon concerts. But what it is called, _mon Dieu_, I
have racked my brain for it. _Sacre mille tonnerres!_" He leaped to his
feet in his unexpected, startling way, and pounced on a Bradshaw's
Railway Guide lying on my library table. "Imbecile, pig, triple ass that
I am! Why did I not think of this before? It is near London. If I look
through all the stations near London on every line, I shall find it."

"All right," said I, "go ahead."

I lit a cigarette and took up a novel. I had not read very far when a
sudden uproar from the table caused me to turn round. Aristide danced
and flourished the Bradshaw over his head.

"Chislehurst! Chislehurst! Ah, _mon ami_, now I am happy. Now I have
found my little Jean. You will forgive me--but I must go now and embrace
him."

He held out his hand.

"Where are you off to?" I demanded.

"The Chislehurst, where else?"

"My dear fellow," said I, rising, "do you seriously suppose that these
two English maiden ladies have taken on themselves the responsibility of
that foreign brat's upbringing?"