Rawson-Clew took up the bottle and looked at it, and looked at the address card on the lid, all over again; and there grew in his mind the conviction that he been a remarkable and particular fool.  Not because he had taken that holiday on the Dunes, nor yet because he had failed to get the explosive and Julia had succeeded—­he believed that a man might have average intelligence and yet fail there, for he thought she had more than average.  But because he had failed to recognise a fact that had been existent all the time—­the need he had for the good comrade.  Why had he a better liking for his work than of old?  Because it was such as she would have liked, could have done well, every now and then he fancied her there.  Why did he find new pleasure in the hours he spent reading Renaissance Italian, old memoirs, the ripe wisdom of the late Tudors and early Stuarts?  Because he found her in the pages, saw her laugh sometimes, heard her contradict at others; felt her, invisible and not always recognised, at his elbow.

He looked round; why should not the presence be fact instead of fancy?  He would go to Mr. Gillat and find her whereabouts; if Julia was in England, as she probably was, seeing that the box was posted in London, the old man would know where she was.  He would go to Berwick Street—­he looked at the clock—­no, not now; it was too late, or rather too early; he would have to wait till the morning was a good deal older.

Unfortunately the carrying out of the plan did not prove very successful.  Berwick Street he found, and No. 31 he found, but not Mr. Gillat; he was gone and had left no address.  Mrs. Horn did not seem troubled by the omission; he had paid everything before he went away, and he practically never had any letters to be sent on; why, she asked, should she bother after his address?

Rawson-Clew could not tell her why she should, nor did he give any reason why he himself should.  He went away and, reversing the order of his previous search, went to Marbridge.

But failure awaited him there, too.  When he came to the Polkingtons’ house he found it empty, the blinds down, the steps uncleaned, and bills announcing that it was to let in the windows.  He stood and looked at it in the grey afternoon, and for a moment he was conscious of a feeling of desolation and disappointment which was almost absurd.  He turned away and began to make inquiries about the family.  He soon learnt all that was commonly known.  They had been gone from East Street some little time now; they must have left before the box containing the explosive was posted.  Julia had sent it to Aunt Jane’s lawyer, before she set out for the cottage, asking him to dispatch it at a given date, and he had fulfilled her request, thinking it a wedding present and the date specified one near the impending ceremony.  This, of course, Rawson-Clew did not find out; he found out several things about the Polkingtons though, their debts and