should forthwith drive to Mr. Fletcher Moulton's house in Onslow Square, S.W., in accordance with the address given on M. Labori's letter. M. Desmoulin's friend, on his side, was to return to Paris that afternoon by the Club train. So, the council over, both these gentlemen went off, leaving M. Zola and myself together.

We had a long and desultory chat, now on the Dreyfus affair generally, now on M. Zola's personal position, the probable duration of his exile, and so forth. He himself did not think that he would remain abroad beyond October at the latest, and as there might be a delay if not a difficulty in getting any clothes sent to him from Paris, he proposed to make a few purchases.

It was then that he told me how he had already bought a shirt, collar, and socks on the previous day.

'I had nothing but what I was wearing,' said he. 'I had been to Versailles and had sat perspiring in the crowded court; then I had spent the night travelling. I looked dirty, and I felt abominably uncomfortable. So I go out, yesterday morning, and see a shop with shirts, neckties, collars, and socks in the window. I go in; I take hold of my collar, I pull down my cuffs, I tap my shirt front. The shopman smiles; he understands me. He measures my neck; he gives me a shirt and some collars. But then we come to the socks, and I pull up my trousers and point to those I am wearing. He understands immediately. He is very intelligent. He climbs his steps and pulls parcels and boxes from his shelves.

'Here are socks of all colours, dark and light, spotted, striped, in mixtures, in cotton, in wool, some ribbed and some with silk clockings. But they are huge! I look at one pair; it is too big; he shows me another and another; they are still of a larger size. Then, impatient, and perhaps rather abruptly, I hold out my fist for the man to measure it, and thus gauge the length of my foot as is done in Paris. But he does not understand me. He draws back close to the shelves as if he imagines that I want to box him. And when I again lift my foot to call his attention to its size, he shows even greater concern. Fortunately an idea comes to me. I take one of the mammoth socks that are lying on the counter and fold parts of it neatly back, so as to make it appear very much smaller than it is. Then the shopman suddenly brightens, taps his forehead, climbs his steps again, and pulls yet more boxes and parcels from his shelves. And here at last are the small socks! So I choose a pair, and pay the bill. And the man bows his thanks, well pleased, it seems, to find that in thrusting out my fist and raising my foot I had been actuated by no desire to injure him.'

I was still chuckling over M. Zola's anecdote when M. Desmoulin returned from his journey to Onslow Square. He had there interviewed a smart boy in buttons, who had informed him that his learned master was out of town electioneering, and might not be home again for a week or two. Desmoulin had, therefore, retained possession of Maitre Labori's note of introduction.

I now remembered what I ought to have recalled before—namely that Mr. Fletcher Moulton was at that moment a candidate for the parliamentary representation of the Launceston division of Cornwall. Under such circumstances it was unlikely that his advice would be available for some little time to come. And so all idea of applying to him was abandoned. It may be that this narrative, should it meet the learned gentleman's eye, will for the first time acquaint him with what was intended by M. Zola, acting under Maitre Labori's advice.

M. Zola, I should add, remained most anxious to secure an English legal opinion on his position, and I therefore suggested to him that I should that evening consult a discreet and reliable friend of mine, a solicitor. We, of course, well knew that there could be no extradition, but it was a point whether a copy of the Versailles judgment might not be legally be placed in M. Zola's hands, under such conventions as might exist between France and Great Britain.

This, I thought, could be ascertained within the next forty-eight hours, and meantime M. Zola might remain where he was, for I could not well offer him an asylum in my little home. My connection with him as his English translator being so widely known, newspaper reporters were certain to call upon me, and what ever precautions I might take, his presence in my house would speedily be discovered. On the other hand, M. Desmoulin wished to go to Brighton or Hastings, but, in my estimation, both those places, crowded with holiday-makers, were not desirable spots.

Leaving the Grosvenor, the three of us discussed these matters while strolling up Buckingham Palace Road. It was a warm sunshiny afternoon, and the street was full of people. All at once a couple of ladies passed us, and one of them, after turning her head in our direction, made a remark to her companion.

'Did you hear that?' Desmoulin eagerly inquired. 'She spoke in French!'

'Ah!' I replied. 'What did she say?'

'"Why," she exclaimed, "there's M. Zola!" Our secret is as good as gone now! It will be all over London by to-morrow!'

We felt somewhat alarmed. Who could those ladies be? For my part I had scarcely noticed them. Desmoulin opined, however, that they might perchance be French actresses, members possibly of Madame Sarah Bernhardt's company, which was then in London. And again he urged the necessity of immediate departure. They must go to Hastings, Brighton, Ramsgate—some place at all events where the author of 'J'accuse' would incur less chance of recognition.

To me it seemed that some quiet, retired country village would be most suitable. In any town M. Zola would incur great risk of being identified. Moreover his appearance was conspicuous, his white billycock, his glasses, his light grey suit, his rosette of the Legion of Honour, his many characteristic gestures all attracted attention. If anything was to be done he must begin by Anglicising his appearance. But whatever I might urge I found him stubborn on that point; and, as for departure from London, he preferred to postpone this until I should have seen my friend the solicitor.

'Everything is as good as lost!' cried M. Desmoulin. 'How foolish, too, of Clemenceau to have sent you to a swell hotel in a fashionable neighbourhood! I am certain there are other French people staying at the Grosvenor—I heard somebody talking French there this morning.'

This again might lead to unpleasantness, and I could see that the master was gradually growing anxious. By this time, however, we had reached St. James's Park, and there, as we seated ourselves on some chairs beside the ornamental water, I led the conversation into another channel by producing an evening newspaper, and reading therefrom successive narratives of how M. Zola had sailed for Norway, how he had taken train at the Eastern Terminus in Paris, and how he had been bicycling through the Oberland on his way to some mysterious Helvetian retreat. Then we laughed—ah! those journalists!—and fears were at an end.

The ducks paddled past us, the drooping foliage of the island trees stirred in the warm breeze. On a bench near at hand a couple of vagrants sat dozing, with their toes protruding through their wretched footgear. Then a soldier, smart and pert, strolled up, a flower between his lips and a good-looking girl beside him. Away in front of us were the top windows and the roofs of St. Anne's Mansions. Farther, on the left, the clock tower of Westminster glinted in the sun-rays.

'Fine ducks!' said M. Zola.

'A pretty corner,' added Desmoulin, waving his hand towards some branches that drooped to the water's edge. And suddenly I remembered and told them of another French exile, the epicurean St. Evremond, whose needs were