It was then that he told me the story of which I have already related in these chronicles:[A] how he was scouring France in a ramshackle automobile as the peripatetic vendor of a patent corn cure and found a babe of nine months lying abandoned in the middle of that silent road through the wilderness between Salon and Arles; how instead of delivering it over to the authorities, he adopted it and carried it about with him from town to town, a motor accessory sometimes embarrassing, but always divinely precious; how an evil day came upon him at Aix-en-Provence when, the wheezing automobile having uttered its last gasp, he found his occupation gone; how, no longer being able to care for _le petit_ Jean, he left him with a letter and half his fortune outside the door of a couple of English maiden ladies who, staying in the same hotel, had manifested great interest in the baby and himself; and how, in the dead of the night, he had tramped away from Aix-en-Provence in the rain, his pockets light and his heart as heavy as lead. [A] The Adventures of the Foundling. "And I have never heard of my little Jean again," said Aristide. "Why didn't you write?" I asked. "I knew their names, Honeywood; Miss Janet was the elder, Miss Anne the younger. But the name of the place they lived at I have never been able to remember. It was near London--they used to come up by train to matinées and afternoon concerts. But what it is called, _mon Dieu_, I have racked my brain for it. _Sacré mille tonnerres!_" He leaped to his feet in his unexpected, startling way, and pounced on a Bradshaw's Railway Guide lying on my library table. "Imbecile, pig, triple ass that I am! Why did I not think of this before? It is near London. If I look through all the stations near London on every line, I shall find it." "All right," said I, "go ahead." I lit a cigarette and took up a novel. I had not read very far when a sudden uproar from the table caused me to turn round. Aristide danced and flourished the Bradshaw over his head. "Chislehurst! Chislehurst! Ah, _mon ami_, now I am happy. Now I have found my little Jean. You will forgive me--but I must go now and embrace him." He held out his hand. "Where are you off to?" I demanded. "The Chislehurst, where else?" "My dear fellow," said I, rising, "do you seriously suppose that these two English maiden ladies have taken on themselves the responsibility of that foreign brat's upbringing?" "_Mon Dieu!_" said he taken aback for the moment, hypothesis having entered his head. Then, with a wide gesture, he flung the preposterous idea to the winds. "Of course. They have hearts, these English women. They have maternal instincts. They have money." He looked at Bradshaw again, then at his watch. "I have just time to catch a train. _Au revoir, mon vieux._" "But," I objected, "why don't you write? It's the natural thing to do."