his best course
would be to pitch his tent 'far from gay cities and the ways of men.'
Within a few hours I had some proof of the wisdom of his decision, and a
week had not elapsed before I found that M. Zola's sojourn at Wimbledon
had become known to a variety of people. Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur,
had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, he
was no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfus
business--he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the 'Petit
Journal'--M. Zola's secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands.
But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became _le secret de
Polichinelle_. A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as he
stood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists. Then a
gentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in my
company, and shrewdly guessed his identity. Subsequently a local
hairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris and
Parisian matters, 'spotted' him in the Hill Road. Others followed suit,
and at last one afternoon a member of the 'Globe' staff called upon me
and supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could not
possibly deny the accuracy of his information. But M. Zola had then left
Wimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform him
that, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there at
that time.

It had been arranged that some of the leading London house agents should
be written to, with the view of securing some secluded country house,
preferably in Surrey, and on the South Western line; but the question
was, where, in the meantime, could M. Zola be conveniently installed?
Having left England in the year 1865, and apart from a few brief sojourns
in London, having remained abroad till 1886, my knowledge of my native
land is very slight indeed. Years spent in foreign countries have made me
a stay-at-home--one who nowadays buries himself in his little London
suburb, going to town as seldom as possible, and without need of country
or seaside trip, since at Merton, where I live, there are green fields
all around one and every vivifying breeze that can be wished for. Thus I
was the worst person in the world to take charge of M. Zola and pilot him
safely to a haven of refuge.

Fortunately, Mr. Wareham knows his way about, as the saying goes, and his
cycling experience proved very useful. He suggeste