‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, he don’t.’ He examined the coin, bewildered. Then, fearing that she must read the whole of his story in his ignorance, he pocketed his money and darted out into the street again. It was strange how a broken habit reasserted itself. He put his hand in his unfamiliar waistcoat pocket and pulled out his watch. Nine o’clock. That was impossible. He laughed, realising that his watch had run down at its usual winding time on the night of his arrest. ‘I’m like a fool,’ he thought. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m dull, useless. I want another drink.’ Gradually, under the influence of the liquor, his confidence returned. It must be market day in Shrewsbury, he thought, for the streets were so full of people; but reflection told him that Shrewsbury market is not held on a Monday and that the crowd that moved on the pavements of the steep high street was no more than the normal week-day traffic. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to realise that people were not staring at him. He was encouraged to slacken his pace, to walk no longer as if some one were pursuing him. He stared in several shop windows, and at last found himself gazing at his own image in a long mirror. It gave him a start to find himself facing an elongated lath of a man that he did not know, until he realised that the mirror was a convex affair placed as an advertisement outside an eating-house to emphasise the contrast between a man who had fed there and one who had not. It was not such a bad idea. He would go in and eat his first square meal. The place was nearly empty, for Shrewsbury does not dine till one o’clock. They brought him steak and kidney pudding, the best that he had ever tasted, and a pint of half and half. He began to feel a man again. He called the waiter for a second drink and ordered, with it, a local time-table. Looking through it at leisure he found that the trains to Llandwlas had not been altered, though there was now time to get a drink in the change at Craven Arms. If he caught the afternoon train he would have time to look about Shrewsbury for another two hours and see to certain business matters that were in the back of his mind. He paid his bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and walked up the hill past the half-timbered houses to the main street. He wondered if the place was where it used to be. Yes, it was still there. It pleased him to think that he hadn’t lost his memory. Nothing would have surprised him after all those useless, numbing months. Above the shop door was the inscription: ‘Emigration Office.’ Inside, a long counter, backed by posters of shipping companies, and a single yawning clerk who had been left in charge during the luncheon hour. He asked George what he could do for him. ‘Canada,’ said George. ‘I want to know all about it.’