This became serious; for old Pascoe, with his Heart’s Desire, had vanished, like his Toltecs.  A week went by.  The barge-builder, for whom this had now ceased to be a joke, was vastly troubled by the complete disappearance of his neighbour, and shook his head over it.  Then a few lines in an evening paper, from a port on the Devon coast, looked promising, though what they wished to convey was not quite clear, for it was a humorous paragraph.  But the evidence was strong enough for me, and on behalf of the barge-builder and a few others I went at once to that west-coast harbour.

It was late at night when I arrived, and bewildering with rain, total darkness, and an upheaval of cobbles in by-ways that wandered to no known purpose.  But a guide presently brought me to a providential window, and quarters in the Turk’s Head.  In my room I could hear a continuous murmuring, no doubt from the saloon bar below, and occasional rounds of hearty merriment.  That would be the place for news, and I went down to get it.  An oil-lamp veiled in tobacco smoke was hanging from a beam of a sooty ceiling.  A congregation of longshoremen, visible in the blue mist and smoky light chiefly because of their pink masks, was packed on benches round the walls.  They laughed aloud again as I went in.  They were regarding with indulgent interest and a little shy respect an elegant figure overlooking them, and posed negligently against the bar, on the other side of which rested the large bust of a laughing barmaid.  She was as amused as the men.  The figure turned to me as I entered, and stopped its discourse at once.  It ran a hand over its white brow and curly hair with a gesture of mock despair.  “Why, here comes another to share our Hearts Desire.  We can’t keep the beauty to ourselves.”

It was young Hopkins, known to every reader of the Morning Despatch for his volatility and omniscience.  It was certainly not his business to allow any place to keep its secrets to itself; indeed, his reputation including even a capacity for humour, the world was frequently delighted with more than the place itself knew even in secret.  Other correspondents from London were also in the room.  I saw them vaguely when Hopkins indicated their positions with a few graceful flourishes of his hand.  They were lost in Hopkins’s assurance of occupying superiority.  They were looking on.  “We all got here yesterday,” explained Hopkins.  “It’s a fine story, not without its funny touches.  And it has come jolly handy in a dull season when people want cheering up.  We have found the Ancient Mariner.  He was off voyaging again but his ship’s magic was washed out by heavy weather.  And while beer is more plentiful than news, we hope to keep London going with some wonders of the deep.”