F. W. Wareham, of Wimbledon, and Ethelburge House, Bishopsgate Street—­and laid before him the legal points.  I afterwards arranged to see him on the following morning in town, when I hoped to fix a meeting between him and M. Zola.  My first call on Thursday, July 21, was made to the Grosvenor Hotel, where I found both the master and M. Desmoulin in a state of anxiety.  M. Zola, for his part, felt altogether out of his element.  After the excitement of his trial and his journey to England, and the novelty of finding himself stranded in a strange city, a kind of reaction had set in and he was extremely depressed.

M. Desmoulin on his side, having procured several morning newspapers, had explored their columns to ascertain whether the ladies by whom the master had been recognised in the street on the previous day, had by any chance noised the circumstance abroad.  However, the Press was still on the Norway and Holland scents, and as yet not a paper so much as suggested M. Zola’s presence in England.

‘There has hardly been time,’ said Desmoulin to me, ’but there will probably be something fresh this afternoon.  Those actresses are certain to tell people, and we shall have to make ourselves scarce.’

I tried to cheer and tranquillise both him and M. Zola, and then arranged that Wareham should come to the hotel at 2 P.M.  Meantime, said I, whatever M. Desmoulin might do, it would be as well for M. Zola to remain indoors.  Several commissions were entrusted to me, and I went off, promising to return about noon.

I betook myself first to Messrs. Chatto and Windus’s in St. Martin’s Lane, where I arrived a few minutes before ten o’clock.  Neither Mr. Chatto nor his partner, Mr. Percy Spalding, had as yet arrived, and I therefore had to wait a few minutes.  When Mr. Spalding made his appearance he greeted me with a smile, and while leading the way to his private room exclaimed, ‘So our friend Zola is in London!’

To describe my amazement is beyond my powers.  I could only gasp, ’How do you know that?’

‘Why, my wife saw him yesterday in Buckingham Palace Road.’

I was confounded.  For my part I had scarcely glanced at the ladies whom Desmoulin had conjectured to be French actresses—­simply because they were young, prepossessing, and spoke French!—­and certainly I should not readily have recognised Mrs. Spalding, whom I had only met once some years previously.  It now seemed to me rather fortunate that she should be the person who had recognised M. Zola, since she would naturally be discreet as soon as the situation should be made clear to her.

After I had explained the position, I ascertained that the only person besides herself who knew anything so far were her husband and the lady friend who had accompanied her on the previous day.

‘I will telegraph to my wife at once,’ said Mr. Spalding, ’and you may be sure that the matter will go no further.  We certainly had a hearty laugh at breakfast this morning when we read in the “Telegraph” of Zola bicycling over the Swiss frontier; but, of course, as from what you tell me, the matter is serious, neither my wife nor myself will speak of it.’