This decision he reached only after long consideration, not because it was not obvious—it had instantly occurred to him—but because he was convinced that the methods he had already tried had completely covered the ground. He had proved that there was no hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in a fair-sized town whose name ended in . . . s in all the district in question, other than the Grand Hôtel du Sablon at Bruges. There still remained, however, the chance that it might be a southern French or Swiss hotel, and he saw that he would have to make sure of this before returning to London. Still buried in thought, he walked slowly back to the station to look up trains to Brussels. The fact that he was in the most interesting town in Belgium no longer stirred his pulse. His disappointment and anxiety about his case drove all irrelevant matters from his mind, and he felt that all he wanted now was to be at work again to retrieve his error. He reached the station, and began searching the huge timetable boards for the train he wanted. He was interested to notice that the tables were published in two languages, French and what he thought at first was Dutch, but concluded later must be Flemish. Idly he compared the different spelling of the names of the towns. Brugge and Bruges, Gent and Gand, Brussel and Bruxelles, Oostende and Ostende, and then suddenly he came up as it were all standing, and a sudden wave of excitement passed over him as he stood regarding another pair of names. Antwerpen and Anvers! Anvers! A six lettered town ending in s! He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had always thought of the place as Antwerp, but he ought to have known its French name. Anvers! Once more he was alert and full of eager optimism. Had he got it at last? He passed through on to the platform, and making for a door headed “Chef de Gare,” asked for the stationmaster. There, after a moment’s delay, he was shown into the presence of an imposing individual in gold lace, who, however, was not too important to listen to him carefully and reply courteously in somewhat halting English. Monsieur wished to know if there was an hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in Antwerp? He could not recall one off hand, but he would look up the advertisements in his guides and tourist programs. Ah, what was this? The Grand Hôtel du Carillon. Was that what monsieur required? A name of twenty letters—which would exactly fill the space on the receipt stamp! It certainly was what monsieur required! The very idea raised monsieur to an exalted pitch of delighted enthusiasm. The stationmaster was gratified at the reception of his information. “I haf been at the ’otel myself,” he volunteered. “It is small, but vair’ goot. It is in the Place Verte, near to the Cathedral. Does monsieur know Antwerp?” Monsieur did not, but he expressed the pleasure it would give him to make its acquaintance, and thanking the polite official he returned to the timetables to look up the trains thither.