The chorus was growing fainter now; once more the last slopes of the melody were in sight—­those downhill gradations of the air that told of the silence to come.  Then once more, for an instant, there was silence, till again, perhaps nearly a quarter of a mile away, the single tenor voice began da capo.  And the last that Frank heard, at the moment before the quarter struck and, soft and mellow though it was, jarred the air and left the ear unable to focus itself again on the tiny woven thread of sound, was, once more the untiring quartette taking up the melody, far off in the silent darkness.

It seems to me a curious little incident—­this passing of four singers in the night; it might have seemed as if our travelers, by a kind of chance, were allowed to overhear the affairs of a world other than their own—­and the more curious because Frank seems to have been so much absorbed by it.  Of course, from a practical point of view, it is almost painfully obvious what is the explanation.  It must have been a quartette from the cathedral choir, returning from some festivity in the suburbs; and it must have happened that they followed the same route, though walking on the grass, along which Frank himself had come that evening.

(II)

The second incident is even more ordinary, and once again I must declare that nothing would have induced me to incorporate it into this story had it not appeared, described very minutely in the sort of log-book into which Frank’s diary occasionally degenerates.

They were within a very few miles of the outskirts of London, and December had succeeded November.  They had had a day or two of work upon some farm or other. (I have not been able to identify the place), and had run into, and, indeed, exchanged remarks with two or three groups of tramps also London bound.

They were given temporary lodgings in a loft over a stable, by the farmer for whom they worked, and this stable was situated in a court at the end of the village street, with gates that stood open all day, since the yard was overlooked by the windows of the farmer’s living-house—­and, besides, there was really nothing to steal.

They had finished their work in the fields (I think it had to do with the sheep and mangel-wurzels, or something of the kind); they had returned to their lodgings, received their pay, packed up their belongings, and had already reached the further end of the village on their way to London, when Frank discovered that he had left a pair of socks behind.  This would never do:  socks cost money, and their absence meant sore feet and weariness; so he told the Major and Gertie to walk on slowly while he went back.  He would catch them up, he said, before they had gone half a mile.  He hid his bundle under a hedge—­every pound of weight made a difference at the end of a day’s work—­and set off.

It was just at that moment between day and night—­between four and five o’clock—­as he came back into the yard.  He went straight through the open gates, glancing about, to explain matters to the farmer if necessary, but, not seeing him, went up the rickety stairs, groped his way across to the window, took down his socks from the nail an which he had hung them last night, and came down again.