‘Jean is right, monsieur,’ said the _cafetier_ to me in his broken English, which I had some difficulty in comprehending, and with an air of polite deprecation. ‘We do not let out beds to strangers. The lamp shall be altered to-morrow. I am sorry—truly sorry, monsieur.’ ‘So am I sorry,’ I answered stoutly. ‘I am an utter stranger in London, never having set foot in it till three hours ago, and I know no more where I am than the man in the moon. Besides, think of the fog! What am I, a stranger, to do if turned out into the midst of it? You can surely find me a bed somewhere. I don’t care how humble it is—and it’s only for one night. Put your head outside the door, monsieur, and see for yourself whether on such a night you would turn even a dog into the streets.’ The _cafetier_ spoke to Jean in some language with which I had no acquaintance. Jean replied volubly as usual. Then the _cafetier_ spoke again, but this time his voice had an imperative tone in it such as I had not noticed before. Jean turned pale, and replied, not in words, but by turning out the palms of his hands and spreading wide his fingers. It was an answer replete with significance. Turning to me, the _cafetier_ said, in his slow, hesitating tones: ‘I will find monsieur a bed. He is a stranger and an Englishman and claims my hospitality: that is enough for Fedor Karavich.’ I did not fail to thank him. He smiled faintly, made me a little bow, and went slowly back to his counter. When I turned my eyes on Jean, he was scowling at me most unmistakably. What could I possibly have done to annoy the sprightly little man? The stranger with the gold spectacles pushed away his newspapers and rose to go. Jean helped him on with his fur-lined overcoat, and as he did so, a quick whisper passed between the two. Then Jean left him. The stranger put on his hat, and coming down a pace or two till he stood close by the end of my table, he proceeded to leisurely button up his coat. I happened to look up, and our eyes met. The stranger smiled, and said in a soft, pleasant voice, in which there was the faintest perceptible trace of a foreign accent: ‘Pardon, but I think I heard monsieur say just now that he was a stranger in London. Is that not so?’ ‘Quite a stranger,’ I replied. ‘I only arrived here three hours ago, and was never in London before.’ I was glad to have some one to speak to, were it only this pleasant-voiced foreigner; it seemed in some measure to take off the edge of my loneliness. ‘Again pardon,’ said the other; ‘but monsieur would naturally find the fog outside rather bewildering? Ah, your English climate! He would be puzzled, for instance, to find his way from this house to Charing Cross, or even to the nearest bridge; is it not so?’ ‘Faith, you’re right there,’ I answered with a laugh. ‘I have not the slightest idea of the locality of this house, nor even on which side the river it is situated. But daylight will solve my difficulties in that respect.’