he sequel proved. During our repast, however, I
felt a little doubtful about one of the waiters who know French, and I
therefore cautioned M. Zola and M. Desmoulin to be as reticent as
possible.

After dinner we adjourned to Wareham's house in Prince's Road, where Mrs.
Wareham gave the travellers the most cordial of welcomes. The
conversation was chiefly confined to the question of finding some
suitable place where M. Zola might settle down for his term of exile. He,
himself, was so taken with what he had seen of Wimbledon that he
suggested renting a furnished house there. This seemed a trifle
dangerous, both to Wareham and myself; but the novelist was not to be
gainsaid; and as Wareham, in anticipation of his services being required,
had made special arrangements to give M. Zola most of his time on the
morrow, we arranged to see some house agents, engage a landau, and drive
round to visit such places as might seem suitable.

It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham's to escort Desmoulin
to the Alexandra Road. I there left him in charge of his host, Mr.
Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover's Walk,
which the South Western Railway Company so considerately provides for
amorous Wimbledonians, I hurried homeward, wondering what the morrow
would bring forth.

V

WIMBLEDON--OATLANDS

It will be obvious to all readers of this narrative that from the moment
M. Zola left Paris, and throughout his sojourn in London and its
immediate neighbourhood, there was little if any skill shown in the
matter of keeping his movements secret. In point of fact, blunder upon
blunder was committed. A first mistake was made in going to an hotel like
the Grosvenor; a second in openly promenading some of the most frequented
of the London streets; and a third in declining to make the slightest
alteration with regard to personal appearance. Again, although press of
circumstances rendered departure for Wimbledon a necessity, as it was
imperative to get M. Zola out of London at once, this change of quarters
was in the end scarcely conducive to secrecy. A good many Wimbledonians
were aware of my connection with M. Zola, and even if he were not
personally recognised by them, the circumstance of a French gentleman of
striking appearance being seen in my company was fated to arouse
suspicion. My home is but a mile or so from the centre of Wimbledon, and
M