Next morning, Vernon and I went up to town by an early train, leaving Lord Elyn and Deeming to take their Channel trip. At Charing Cross, as we were parting, Vernon to go to Claridge’s and I to my flat in Albemarle Street, Vernon said, “By the way, what is Deeming’s address?” “Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” I said. He took out a card and a pencil. “Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” he repeated slowly, as he wrote it down. “Good-bye. Let’s meet to-morrow. Come and lunch with me.” He got into a hansom and drove away. I followed in a moment. As my cab came out of the station yard and crossed Trafalgar Square I was enveloped in what I called to myself “the London feeling.” The day was warm, but dull and grey. The tall buildings, the statue of Gordon, the Nelson column, the lions, looked sad and phantom-like to my eyes, for many months accustomed to the pellucid clearness of African landscapes, to the brilliant blue of Italian skies. And the well-known depression which always settles down upon me like a fog when I first return to London came to me once more, bathing me in a gloom which I strove in vain to shake off. In this gloom I seemed to see, like shadows passing in a fog, the forms of Vernon, of Deeming, and another form, small, black, and cringing, the form of a dog. “P’f!” I said to myself. “Am I going to be the slave of a too sensitive imagination?” And I resolutely began to think of pleasant things, of the friends, of the amusements, of the occupations that would solace me. Yet, when I reached Albemarle Street, I was heavy-hearted, and all that day and the next my depression persisted. Even a cheerful lunch with Vernon at Claridge’s and the renewal of many old acquaintanceships failed to restore me to my normal temper. A week passed by, and I had not seen Deeming. I was beginning to wonder what had become of him, when I received from him a note asking me to dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening to meet Vernon. I was, unfortunately, already engaged to dine with some American friends and go to the play; so I wrote to excuse myself, and added this postscript— “May your dinner banish your mutual misunderstanding. Remember that it will always be a grief to me if my two friends are at cross-purposes.” The day after the dinner, when I had just come in from the club at seven o’clock in the evening, my servant announced “Doctor Deeming,” and Deeming walked into the room. I saw at once that he was in a condition of unusual excitement. We shook hands, and directly my man had gone out and the door was shut, Deeming, who was still standing and who did not seem to see the chair I offered to him, exclaimed— “Of course, you have heard about Number 301?” “Number 301? What the deuce do you mean?” I asked. “Number 301, Wimpole Street, the house next door to mine.” “What about it? Has it been burgled, or burnt down, or what?”