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.