"Good God!" he said. "It _is_ like me! Poor little girl--but you know I wouldn't frighten you for anything. But it _is_ like! What an extraordinary thing. We looked for the infamous Toftrees! the egregious Herbert who has split so many infinitives in his time, and we find--Me!" Rita was recovering. She laughed, but she held tightly to Gilbert's arm at the same time. "Let's see who the person is--or was--" Gilbert went on, drawing the catalogue from his pocket. "Key of the principal gate of the Bastille--no, that's not it. Number 365, oh, here we are! Hancock, the Hackney Murderer. A chemist in comfortable circumstances, he----" Rita snatched the book from his hand. "I don't want to hear any more," she said. "Let's go away, quick!" In half an hour they were lunching at a little Italian restaurant which they found in the vicinity. The day was still dark and lowering, but a risotto Milanese and something which looked like prawns in _polenta_, but wasn't, restored them to themselves. There was a wine list in this quite snug little place, but the proprietor advanced and explained that he had no license and that money must be paid in advance before the camerière could fetch what was required from an adjacent public house. It was a bottle of whiskey that Gilbert ordered, politely placed upon the table by a pathetic little Genoese whose face was sallow as spaghetti and who was quite unconscious that for the moment the Fiend Alcohol had borrowed his poor personality. . . . "You must have a whiskey and soda, Rita. I dare not let you attempt any of the wines from the public house at the corner." "I've never tried it in my life. But I will now, out of curiosity. I'll taste what you are so far too fond of." Rita did so. "Horrible stuff," she said. "It's just like medicine." Gilbert had induced the pleasant numbness again. "You've said exactly what it is," he replied in a dreamy voice.--"'Medicine for a mind diseased.'" They hardly conversed at all after that. The little restaurant with its red plush seats against the wall, its mirrors and hanging electric lights, was cosy. They lingered long over their coffee and cigarettes. No one else was there and the proprietor sidled up to them and began to talk. He spoke in English at first, and then Gilbert answered him in French. Gilbert spoke French as it is spoken in Tours, quite perfectly. The Italian spoke it with the soft, ungrammatical fluency of his race. The interlude pleased the tired, jaded minds of the sad companions, and it was with some fictitious reconstruction of past gaiety and animation that they drove to St. Pancras. The train was in. Gilbert's dressing-case was already placed in a first-class compartment, his portmanteau snug in the van. When he walked up the long platform with Rita, a porter, the Guard of the train and the steward of the dining-car, were grouped round the open door.