My first impulse was to hurry to the Grosvenor immediately, but I reflected that I might not find him there, and that even if I did I might inconvenience him, as he had appointed the following day for my call.  So I contented myself with telegraphing as follows:  ’Pascal, Grosvenor Hotel.—­Rely on me, tomorrow, eleven o’clock.’  And, as a precautionary measure, I signed the telegram merely with my Christian name.

As I afterwards learnt, M. Zola had spent that day companionless, walking about the Mall and St. James’s Park, and purchasing a shirt, a collar, and a pair of socks at a shop in or near Buckingham Palace Road, where, knowing no English, he explained his requirements by pantomime.  He had further studied several street scenes, and had given some time to wondering what purpose might be served by a certain ugly elongated building, overlooking a drive and a park.  There was a sentry at the gate, but the place had such a gaunt, clumsy, and mournful aspect, that M. Zola could not possibly picture it as the London palace of her most Gracious Majesty the Queen.

However, evening found him once more in his room at the Grosvenor; and feeling tired and feverish he lay down and dozed.  When he awoke between nine and ten o’clock he perceived a buff envelope on the carpet near by him.  It had been thrust under the door during his sleep, and its presence greatly astonished him, for he expected neither letter nor telegram.  For a moment, as he has told me, he imagined this to be some trap; wondered if he had been watched and followed to London, and almost made up his mind to leave the hotel that night.  But when, after a little hesitation, he had opened the envelope and read my telegram, he realised how groundless had been his alarm.

On the morrow, when I reached the Grosvenor and inquired at the office there for M. Pascal, I was asked my name, on giving which I received a note from M. Zola saying that he unexpectedly found himself obliged to go out, but would return at 2.30 P.M.  As I stood reading this note, I espied a couple of individuals scrutinising me in what I deemed a most suspicious manner.  Both were Frenchmen evidently; they wore billycock hats and carried stout sticks; and one of them, swarthy and almost brigandish of aspect, had the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole.  It was easy to take these individuals for French detectives, and I hastily jumped to the conclusion that they were on ‘M.  Pascal’s’ track.

To make matters even more suspicious, when, after placing Zola’s note in my pocket, I began to cross the vestibule, the others deliberately followed me, and in all likelihood I should have fled never to return if a well-known figure in a white billycock and grey suit had not suddenly advanced towards us from the direction of the staircase.  In another moment I had exchanged greetings with M. Zola, and my suspicious scrutinisers had been introduced to me as friends.  One of them was none other than M. Fernand Desmoulin.  They had arrived from Paris that morning, and were about to sally forth with M. Zola in search of Mr. Fletcher Moulton, Q.C., to whom they had brought a letter of introduction from Maitre Labori.