For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind of faint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step would be impossible. But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her insular reserve, said: ‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’ He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly: ‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’ He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knew left in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her stiffness melted away: ‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have daughters of my own.’ ‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking, as he hurried away. ‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the prosperous-looking matron to her husband. ‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in the _Times_ if she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’ ‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not die,’ repeated the lady. * * * * * The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home. We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly –it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive. Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’