of people.  Mr. Genoni, the restaurateur, had been one of the first to identify him; but, as he explained to me, he was no spy or betrayer, and whatever he might think of the Dreyfus business—­he was a reader of that anti-Revisionist print the ’Petit Journal’—­M.  Zola’s secret was, he assured me, quite safe in his hands.  But, independently of Mr. Genoni, the secret soon became le secret de Polichinelle.  A French resident in Wimbledon recognised M. Zola as he stood one day by the railway bridge admiring some fair cyclists.  Then a gentleman connected with the local Petty Sessions court espied him in my company, and shrewdly guessed his identity.  Subsequently a local hairdresser, an Englishman, but one well acquainted with Paris and Parisian matters, ‘spotted’ him in the Hill Road.  Others followed suit, and at last one afternoon a member of the ‘Globe’ staff called upon me and supplied me with such circumstantial particulars that I could not possibly deny the accuracy of his information.  But M. Zola had then left Wimbledon, and thus I was able to fence with my visitor and inform him that, even if the novelist had ever been in the town, he was not there at that time.

It had been arranged that some of the leading London house agents should be written to, with the view of securing some secluded country house, preferably in Surrey, and on the South Western line; but the question was, where, in the meantime, could M. Zola be conveniently installed?  Having left England in the year 1865, and apart from a few brief sojourns in London, having remained abroad till 1886, my knowledge of my native land is very slight indeed.  Years spent in foreign countries have made me a stay-at-home—­one who nowadays buries himself in his little London suburb, going to town as seldom as possible, and without need of country or seaside trip, since at Merton, where I live, there are green fields all around one and every vivifying breeze that can be wished for.  Thus I was the worst person in the world to take charge of M. Zola and pilot him safely to a haven of refuge.

Fortunately, Mr. Wareham knows his way about, as the saying goes, and his cycling experience proved very useful.  He suggested that until a house could be secured, M. Zola should be installed at a country hotel; and he mentioned two or three places which seemed to him of the right character.  One of these was Oatlands Park; and Wareham, who, although a solicitor, claims to have some little poetry in his nature, waxed so enthusiastic over the charms of Oatlands and neighbouring localities, that both M. Zola and M. Desmoulin, fervent admirers of scenery as they are, became curious to visit this leafy district of Surrey, where, as will be remembered, King Louis Philippe spent his last years of life and exile.