In the park the trees were already brown, and on the pale, trampled grass long heaps of rags, like black grave-mounds, showed where weary men who had tramped London all night, moved on by Law and Order, inexorable in blue and silver, now at last had their sleep out, in broad sunshine, under the eyes of the richest city in the world. Little children, dirty and poor--their childhood triumphant over dirt and poverty--played happily in the grass that was less grass than dust. "What a horrible place London is!" she said. "Think of yesterday." That, too, he put away to be taken out and loved later. "We won't stay in London," he said, "if the answer is what I think it will be. We'll go out into the green country and decide what we're going to do." "But if she _did_ put the advertisement in, it means that she's _very_ ill. And then I must go to her." "But if she didn't--and I more and more think she didn't--they may send some one to the General Post-Office post-haste--so it won't do for you to go for the telegram. Do you know the Guildhall Library?" "No." "It's a beautiful place--very quiet, very calm. And the officials are the best chaps I've ever found in any library anywhere. We'll go there. You must want to look up something. Let's see--the dates of the publication of Bacon's works. Write your name in the book--any name you like, so long as it isn't your own; then ask one of the officials to help you, and go and sit at one of the side tables--they're like side chapels in a cathedral--and stay there till I come. You'll be as safe and as secret as if you were in the Bastille. And I'll baffle pursuit and come to you as soon as I can." "Yes," she said, meekly. "And don't worry," he urged. "The more I think of it, the more certain I am that it was not the aunt you like who wrote that advertisement--" He was right. The telegram with which, an hour later, he presented himself at the Guildhall Library ran thus: I did not write advertisement and I am not specially ill, but I am very anxious. Write at once. Aunt Loo and Aunt Enid are both here. I think they must have inserted the advertisement. A. "Your Aunt Alice is a sportsman," he said, "to warn you like that." "I told you she was a darling," she answered--and her whole face had lighted up with relief--"and you are the cleverest person in the world! I should never have thought about its not being her doing, never in a thousand years. You deserve a medal and a statue and a pension." "I don't deserve more than I've got," said he, "nor half so much. The sun shines again." She flashed a brilliant smile at him, and pushed a brown book along the table. "I suppose we ought to look studious," she said, "or they'll turn us out. I am so glad Aunt Alice isn't really worse. You don't know how I've felt while you've been away. It seemed so horribly selfish--to have been so happy and all while she was ill and worried. But, of course, you do know."