f some of Gaboriau's tales which long
ago I had helped to place before the English public. It might be that the
renowned Monsieur Lecoq or his successor, or perchance some English
_confrere_ like Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would presently be after us, and so
it was just as well to play the game according to the orthodox rules of
romance. After all, was it not in something akin to a romance that I was
living?

IV

A CHANGE OF QUARTERS

It should be mentioned that the departure of Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin
from the Grosvenor Hotel took place almost immediately after Wareham had
returned to his office. We were not to meet our friend the solicitor
again until the evening at Wimbledon, but the hotel being apparently a
dangerous spot, it was thought best to quit it forthwith.

When we reached Waterloo the dressing-case and the newspaper parcel were
deposited at one of the cloak-rooms; and after making the round of the
station, we descended into the Waterloo Road. At first we sauntered
towards the New Cut, and of course M. Zola could not help noticing the
contrast between the dingy surroundings amidst which he now found himself
and the stylish shops and roads he had seen in the Buckingham Palace
Road. The vista was not cheering, so I proposed that we should retrace
our steps and go as far as Waterloo Bridge.

There seemed to be little risk in doing so, for, as usual hereabouts in
the middle of the afternoon, there were few people to be seen. The great
successive rush of homeward-bound employers, clerks, and workpeople had
not yet set in. And, moreover, there was plenty of time; for Wareham,
having important business in town that day, could not possibly be at
Wimbledon till half-past six at the earliest.

We reached the bridge--'that monument,' as a famous Frenchman once put
in, 'worthy of Sesostris and the Caesars'--and went about half-way
across. It was splendid weather, and the Thames was aglow with the
countless reflections of the sunbeams that fell from the hot, whitening
sky. London was before us, 'with her palaces down to the water'; and M.
Zola stopped short, gazing intently at the scene.

'Up-stream the view was spoilt,' said he, 'by the hideous Hungerford
Bridge, unworthy alike of the city and the river'--an erection such as no
Paris municipality would have tolerated for four and twenty hours. It was
the more obtrusive and aggravating, since beyond it one