cket-book, and took from it the letter which had altered the whole
perspective of his life. He could almost see the African stoep as he
looked at it, feel the heat of the African sun, hear the occasional
chirping of the grasshoppers. Age-old the memory appeared, caught from
bygone centuries. And it was only a month ago. Replacing it in the book,
his eye fell upon a small piece of pasteboard. The Duchessa had given it
to him that morning. Her name was printed on it, and below she had
written a few pencilled words,--her address in Scotland. She was
remaining in Plymouth for a day or so, before going North. He was to
write to her at the Scotland address, and let her know where she could
acquaint him with her further movements, and the actual date of her
return to the Manor House. That, too, was tangible and real,--that small
piece of white pasteboard. And, then, a little movement beside him, and a
long quivering sigh of content brought back to him the most tangible
thing of all--Josephus. Josephus, who was sleeping the sleep of the
contented, just after a frenzied and rapturous reunion with his deity.

Oh, of course it was all real, and it was he, Antony, his very self, who
was sitting in the train, the train which was rushing through the good
old English country, carrying him towards London and the answer to the
riddle contained in that most amazing of letters.

"It isn't a dream, Josephus," he assured the sleepy puppy. "I am real,
you are real, the train is real, England is real, and Heaven be
praised--the Duchessa is real." After which act of assurance he turned
his attention once more to the window.

And now, the dream sense dispelled, he found long-forgotten memories
awaken within him, memories of early boyhood, aroused by the sight of
some old church tower, of some wood lying on a hillside, of some amber
stream rippling past rush-grown banks. He hugged the memories to his
soul, rejoicing in them. They brought a dozen trivial little incidents to
his mind. He could hear his old nurse's voice warning him not to lean
against the door of the carriage. He could feel his small nose pressed
against the window-pane, his small hand rubbing the glass where it had
been dimmed by his breath. He could hear the crackle of paper bags, as
sandwiches and buns were produced for his refreshment; he could taste the
ham between the pieces of bread and butter; and he could see a small boy,
with one eye on his nurse, pushing a piece of fat