daubs
'ascribed' to old masters, and a wonderful display of Wardour-street
_bric-a-brac_. But, indeed, one has only to look at an average
pawnbroker's shop to picture what kind of articles the house must have
contained.

It seems that the old fellow in question had three daughters, whom he
kept more or less imprisoned on his recently-acquired property, though
they were charming girls well worthy of being sought in marriage; and the
story I heard was that three officers sojourning in the district had one
day espied the three forlorn damsels over the garden hedge, and had
forthwith begun to court them, much to the ire of the misanthropic,
retired pawnbroker. That stern old gentleman ordered his daughters into
the house, and then kept them in stricter confinement than ever.

But love laughs at locksmiths, and the amorous officers eventually
carried the place by storm, and beat down all parental resistance. Three
weddings followed on the same day, and all ended for a time as in a fairy
tale. But the old pawnbroker subsequently married again to relieve his
solitude, and after his death his will was attacked, and an interminable
lawsuit ensued, with the result that the property was left unoccupied.
Now, it appeared, it was for sale, and before long would probably be cut
up into building plots.

Whatever romantic element there might be in the story of the pawnbroker
and his daughters, M. Zola much preferred the popular and gruesome legend
of the little girl murdered in the scullery; and, some time later, when
he consented to write a short story for 'The Star,' it was this legend
which he took as his basis, building thereon the pathetic sketch of
'Angeline,' the scene of which he transferred to France.

He has stated in his article 'Justice,' published in Paris on his return
from exile, that during most of the time he spent in England he was
virtually in a desert. There were people about him of course; but he
retired into himself as it were, communing with his own thoughts, and
seeking no intercourse with strangers. This is true of the period to
which I am now referring. Still he did not complain of solitude. In fact
he knew that quiet was essential for his work. Only once or twice did
anything happen of a nature to cause any anxiety. Neither Wareham nor
myself was much troubled at this period; there was a lull even in the
periodical visits which gentlemen of the Press kindly favoured me.

Still we had taken our precautio