"'Oh, are you sure of that?' I enquired, coldly, and she nodded with a sudden rapturous vivacity. I dare say she was. Very little of that nature escapes a woman who exists chiefly by her temperament. I had been sentimental on the cliff and begged her to use me. Well, I was still young enough to feel a thrill because a pretty woman appealed to me, because I had been singled out for that delicate honour. I did what any of you would have done. I consented. And then she told me hurriedly what she wanted me to do. I was ... yes, this was the man. I understood, eh? She had written him from Saloniki. No answer. He did not know she was in London. She could not go, did not want to go for that matter. It was all over for ever. But it was his child. If I went to him, told him I had come from out there and had seen her ... eh? She wanted him to take the child, later, and bring him up. As an Englishman. And I was to come back and tell her what he said. "And there I was, a respectable, sea-faring person, flying through London in a taxi-cab on a wild-goose chase at the behest of a girl who was rapturously sure I had liked her a little! It was an adventure which disproves the old proverb again. I found myself being carried northward, along streets of an intolerable meanness, past huge vulgar stores, among clanging street-cars and plunging motor-buses. I looked at the address--'Mr. Florian Kelly, 6 Kentish Studios, Kentish Town N. E.' This was Kentish Town. We swung round a corner by a huge terra-cotta subway station, shot up a drab street, turned into a narrow lane, and stopped opposite a tall green wooden wall. I got out, rather dazed, and telling the man to wait, looked about for an entrance. There was a door in the wall with the words 'Kentish Studios' over a bell handle. But the bell handle hung slack and I ventured to open the door. Evidently the taxi-driver had been there before, for he said: 'You'll find Number Six on the right, Sir.' I went in. "It was a long garden surrounded by high black buildings and very quiet. The wet summer had encouraged everything to grow, and the whole place was a rank green jungle. In the centre stood a statue, a nymph stained green and brown with the rain pouring through the foliage overhead. The rank grasses hung over the path and there was a damp smell. I walked along until I came to Number Six. It was one of a number of apartments in a long, low building with large skylights in the roof, a large window and a transom over each door. A fly-blown card over the bell-push announced Mr. Florian Kelly. As I pressed the button I heard a shrill laugh from one of the other studios. I was not surprised to find that the bell did not ring. I rapped with my stick, a fine manly voice remarked 'Oh, damn!' and there was a sound of footsteps. And then the door opened about six inches and a young man with a keen dark face and wearing a calico overall put his head out.