So the first stage of the journey was reached—­and so it ended in No Thoroughfare!  After sending a note to Cripple Corner to inform his partner that his absence might be prolonged for some hours, Wilding took his place in the train, and started for the second stage on the journey—­Mrs. Miller’s residence at Groombridge Wells.

Mothers and children travelled with him; mothers and children met each other at the station; mothers and children were in the shops when he entered them to inquire for Lime-Tree Lodge.  Everywhere, the nearest and dearest of human relations showed itself happily in the happy light of day.  Everywhere, he was reminded of the treasured delusion from which he had been awakened so cruelly—­of the lost memory which had passed from him like a reflection from a glass.

Inquiring here, inquiring there, he could hear of no such place as Lime-Tree Lodge.  Passing a house-agent’s office, he went in wearily, and put the question for the last time.  The house-agent pointed across the street to a dreary mansion of many windows, which might have been a manufactory, but which was an hotel.  “That’s where Lime-Tree Lodge stood, sir,” said the man, “ten years ago.”

The second stage reached, and No Thoroughfare again!

But one chance was left.  The clerical reference, Mr. Harker, still remained to be found.  Customers coming in at the moment to occupy the house-agent’s attention, Wilding went down the street, and entering a bookseller’s shop, asked if he could be informed of the Reverend John Harker’s present address.

The bookseller looked unaffectedly shocked and astonished, and made no answer.

Wilding repeated his question.

The bookseller took up from his counter a prim little volume in a binding of sober gray.  He handed it to his visitor, open at the title-page.  Wilding read: 

“The martyrdom of the Reverend John Harker in New Zealand.  Related by a former member of his flock.”

Wilding put the book down on the counter.  “I beg your pardon,” he said thinking a little, perhaps, of his own present martyrdom while he spoke.  The silent bookseller acknowledged the apology by a bow.  Wilding went out.

Third and last stage, and No Thoroughfare for the third and last time.

There was nothing more to be done; there was absolutely no choice but to go back to London, defeated at all points.  From time to time on the return journey, the wine-merchant looked at his copy of the entry in the Foundling Register.  There is one among the many forms of despair—­perhaps the most pitiable of all—­which persists in disguising itself as Hope.  Wilding checked himself in the act of throwing the useless morsel of paper out of the carriage window.  “It may lead to something yet,” he thought.  “While I live, I won’t part with it.  When I die, my executors shall find it sealed up with my will.”

Now, the mention of his will set the good wine-merchant on a new track of thought, without diverting his mind from its engrossing subject.  He must make his will immediately.