Arrived in Paris, he felt himself secure, and soon recovered sanity.
Thanks to his studious habits, he was equipped with book-French; now, both for economy's sake and for his mental advantage, he struggled with the spoken language, and so far succeeded as to lodge very cheaply in a rather disreputable hotel, and to eat at restaurants where dinner of several courses cost two francs and a half.

His life was irreproachable; he studied the Paris of art and history.

But perforce he remained companionless, and solitude had begun to weigh upon him.
This morning, whilst he sat over his bowl of coffee and _petit pain_, a certain recollection haunted him persistently.

Yesterday, in turning out his pockets, he had come upon a scrap of paper, whereon was written: "93, Belmont Street, Chalk Farm Road, London, N.W." This formula it was which now kept running through his mind, like a refrain which will not be dismissed.
He reproached himself for neglect of his promise to Mrs.Brewer.

More than that, he charged himself with foolish disregard of a possibility which might have boundless significance for him.