wing day for my call. So
I contented myself with telegraphing as follows: 'Pascal, Grosvenor
Hotel.--Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o'clock.' And, as a precautionary
measure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name.

As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless, walking
about the Mall and St. James's Park, and purchasing a shirt, a collar,
and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road, where,
knowing no English, he explained his requirements by pantomime. He had
further studied several street scenes, and had given some time to
wondering what purpose might be served by a certain ugly elongated
building, overlooking a drive and a park. There was a sentry at the gate,
but the place had such a gaunt, clumsy, and mournful aspect, that M. Zola
could not possibly picture it as the London palace of her most Gracious
Majesty the Queen.

However, evening found him once more in his room at the Grosvenor; and
feeling tired and feverish he lay down and dozed. When he awoke between
nine and ten o'clock he perceived a buff envelope on the carpet near by
him. It had been thrust under the door during his sleep, and its presence
greatly astonished him, for he expected neither letter nor telegram. For
a moment, as he has told me, he imagined this to be some trap; wondered
if he had been watched and followed to London, and almost made up his
mind to leave the hotel that night. But when, after a little hesitation,
he had opened the envelope and read my telegram, he realised how
groundless had been his alarm.

On the morrow, when I reached the Grosvenor and inquired at the office
there for M. Pascal, I was asked my name, on giving which I received a
note from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to go
out, but would return at 2.30 P.M. As I stood reading this note, I espied
a couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a most
suspicious manner. Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock
hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost
brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his
buttonhole. It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives,
and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on 'M. Pascal's'
track.

To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola's note in
my pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberately
followed me, and in all likelihood I should