He did so, until midway in the afternoon.  Perusal of old letters will not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active.  Within reach of where he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.

At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington Station —­rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office—­caught the Bristol train just as the guard had signalled for starting.

He was at Bristol soon after eight.  The town being strange ground to him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined.  Such glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, be rambled for an hour or two.  His mind was in a condition difficult to account for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither, it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to years long past.  He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge—­and there, possibly, lay the point of association.  Coleridge:  then he fell upon literary reminiscences.  Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe?  He put the inquiry to a passer-by, and was directed.  By dreary thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the spire, dark against a blotchy sky.  Then he mocked at himself for acting as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name signified boredom to him.  Oh, these English provincial towns!  What an atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all!  And people were born, and lived, and died in Bristol—­merciful powers!

He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and went to bed.

After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where he could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here.  It didn’t matter much; he could strike off by the Midland to Polterham, and be there before noon.  And again he slept.

When he had breakfasted, he called to the waiter and asked him how far it was to that part of the town called Hotwells.  Learning that the road thither would bring him near to Clifton, he nodded with satisfaction.  Clifton was a place to be seen; on a bright morning like this it would be pleasant to walk over the Downs and have a look at the gorge of the Avon.

A cab was called.  With one foot raised he stood in uncertainty, whilst the driver asked him twice whither they were to go.  At length he said “Hotwells,” and named a street in that locality.  He lay back and closed his eyes, remaining thus until the cab stopped.

Hastily he looked about him.  He was among poor houses, and near to docks; the masts of great ships appeared above roofs.  With a quick movement he drew a coin from his pocket, tossed it up, caught it between his hands.  The driver had got down and was standing at the door.