The sight of the letter as it lay there on the counter swept away the shop, the books, London--he sat looking at it with a longing, stronger than any longing that he had ever known, to see the writer again. He lived once more through that night on the farm--perhaps at that moment he felt suddenly his loneliness, here in this huge and tempestuous London, here in this dark bookshop with so many people going in or out. He rubbed the sleeves of his blue serge suit because they made him feel like Treliss, and he sat, with eyes staring into the dark, thinking of Stephen. That evening, just as he was going up to bed, Mr. Zanti came in and greeted him with his accustomed cheerfulness. “Going to bed, Peter? Ah, good boy.” Peter stopped, hesitating, by the door. “Oh, I wonder--” he said and stopped. “Yes?” said Mr. Zanti, looking at him. “Oh--well--it's nothing--” Then he blurted out--“I saw a letter--I couldn't help it--a letter from Stephen this afternoon. They came when Herr Gottfried was out--and I wanted--I want dreadfully--to hear about him--if you could tell me--” For an instant Mr. Zanti's large eyes closed until they seemed to be no larger than pin-points--then they opened again. “Stephen--Stephen? Stephen what? What is it that the boy talks of?” “You know--Stephen Brant--the man who first brought me to see you when I was quite a kid. I was--I always have been very fond of him. I should be so very glad--” “Surely the boy is mad--what has come to you? Stephen Brant--yes I remember the man--but I have heard nothing for years and years--no, nothing. See, here are my afternoon's letters.” He took a bundle of letters out of his pocket and showed them to Peter. The boy found the one in Stephen's handwriting. “You may read it,” said Mr. Zanti smiling. Peter read it. He could not understand it and it was signed “John Simmons” ... but it was certainly in Stephen's handwriting. “Thank you,” said Peter in rather a quivering voice and he turned away, gulping down his disappointment. Mr. Zanti patted him on the shoulder. “That's right, my boy. Ah, I expect you miss your friend. You will be lonely here, yes? Well--see--now that you have been here a few days perhaps it is time for you to find a place to live--and I have talked wiz a friend of mine, a ver' good friend who 'as lived for many years in a 'ouse where 'e says there is a room that will just do for you--cheap, pleasant people ... yes? To-morrow 'e will show you the place. There you will 'ave friends--” Peter smiled, thanked Mr. Zanti and went to bed. But his dreams were confused that night. It seemed to him that London was a huge room with closing walls, and that ever they came closer and closer and that he screamed for Stephen and they would not let Stephen come to him.