So now, for the first time in my life, I found myself driving through the streets of a large manufacturing town. It was the dinner-hour and on all sides the factories were disgorging streams of unhealthy-looking men and women and even children. The tramcars and omnibuses were crowded, the busy streets were lined with swiftly rolling carriages, smart-looking men, and gaily-dressed girls and women. Within a few yards I saw types of men and women so different that it seemed impossible that they could be of the same species. "This is the 'Bell,' sir, where we generally put up," remarked Reynolds, at my elbow. "You will have some lunch, sir, before we go into the town?" I shook my head, but he was quietly though respectfully insistent. So I let him have his way and allowed myself to be piloted into a long, dark coffee-room, where my orders, considerably augmented by Reynolds in transit, were received by a waiter whom we discovered fast asleep in an easy-chair, and who seemed very much surprised to see us. Afterwards we went out in the town, Reynolds and I, and began our shopping. I was measured at the principal tailor's for more clothes than it seemed possible for me to wear out in a lifetime, from riding-breeches to a dress-coat; and the quantity and variety of hats, boots, shirts, and ties which Reynolds put down as indispensable filled me with half-amused astonishment, although I had made up my mind to be surprised at nothing. But our shopping was not finished even when Reynolds, to my inexpressible relief, declared my wardrobe to be as complete as could be furnished by a provincial town. The gunsmith's, the sporting emporium, and the horse-repository were all visited in turn. And when we returned to the hotel about six o'clock I was the possessor of two guns, which were a perfect revelation to me, a cricket-bat, a tennis racquet, a small gymnasium, a set of foils, and, besides other things, a stylish, well-built dogcart and a sound, useful cob. I sank into an easy-chair in the coffee-room and, refusing to listen to Reynold's suggestion as to the propriety of dining before setting out homewards, ordered a cup of tea. While the waiter had left the room to fetch it I strolled to the window to look out at the weather, which had been threatening for some time and on my way I discovered that I was not alone in the apartment. A man was seated at one of the further-most tables, dining, and as I passed he looked up and surveyed me with a cool, critical stare, which changed suddenly into a pleasant smile of recognition. "Mr. Morton, isn't it?" he said, holding out his hand. "Mr. Ravenor told me that I should probably come across you." I was so surprised that for a moment I forgot to accept the offered hand. Mr. Ravenor's secretary was the last person whom I should have expected to find eating a solitary dinner in a Torchester hotel. CHAPTER XV. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE DINNER.