ON the day after that upon which Freyberger had telephoned to the Paris police requesting a personal interview with Mademoiselle Lefarge, London awoke to find itself effaced by fog.

Mrs Hussey, the old woman who stole Hellier’s tea and whisky and coal, made his bed, lit his fire, and attended generally to his wants and discomforts, had set the breakfast things out for him, placed his eggs and bacon in the fender to keep warm, and his letters by his plate. Having attended to these duties she had departed, swallowed up in the fog.

There were three letters on the table. Two small bills and an invitation to a dance in Bayswater. A more depressing post could not have been invented for him.

He had hoped to find an envelope post-marked Boulogne-sur-Mer and addressed to him in a characteristic woman’s hand. He had received no reply to his last letter, but there was the chance that one might come by the second post.

London is a terrible place for the anxious heart expecting news by post. There are so many posts; every hour you hear the double knock at some one else’s door, every hour you see the man in blue passing, the man who could bring you so much if the fates only willed.

The second post came and brought with it a circular.

Have you ever noticed in life the part played by the unexpected? You are looking forward to some pleasure, some journey, some meeting, you, perhaps, are full of doubt as to whether your finances will meet the occasion, whether the carriage will come at the proper time, whether the woman you are to meet will keep the appointment.

All your fears are groundless, the money arrives, the carriage is at the door, the lady is waiting for you, and you are just getting into the carriage with a bunch of violets in ............