was." The information he received was
very full and satisfactory; on the spot he paid for it, and issued into
the street again with tolerably easy mind.

To-morrow he must run down to Polterham again. How to pass the rest of
today? Pressing business was all off his hands, and he did not care to
look up any of his acquaintances; he was not in the mood for talk.
Uncertain about the future, he had decided to warehouse the furniture,
pictures, and so on, that belonged to him. Perhaps it would be well if
he occupied himself in going through his papers--making a selection for
the fire.

He did so, until midway in the afternoon. Perusal of old letters will
not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his
spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active. Within reach of where
he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great
Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.

At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington
Station--rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office--caught the Bristol
train just as the guard had signalled for starting.

He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to
him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined. Such
glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but
neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, he rambled
for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult to account
for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither,
it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to
years long past. He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once
attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge--and there,
possibly, lay the point of association. Coleridge: then he fell upon
literary reminiscences. Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He
put the inquiry to a passer-by, and was directed. By dreary
thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the
spire, dark against a blotchy sky. Then he mocked at himself for acting
as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name
signified boredom to him. Oh, these English provincial towns! What an
atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all! And people were born,
and lived, and died in Bristol--merciful powers!

He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and
went to bed.

After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wond