CHAPTER II.
'Journeys end in lovers' meeting.' The phrase conjures a picture.

The court-yard of some inn, glowing ripe in the tints of the setting sun--open doors--an ancient coach disgorging its passengers! This--or, perhaps, some quay alive with sound and movement--cries of command in varying tongues--crowded gangways--rigging massed against the sky--all the paraphernalia of romance and travel.

But the real journey--the journey of adventure itself--is frequently another matter: often gray, often loverless, often demanding from the secret soul of the adventurer spirit and inspiration, lest the blood turn cold in sick dismay, and the brain cloud under its weight of nostalgia.
Paris in the dawn of a wet day is a sorry sight; the Gare du Nord in the hours of early morning is a place of infinite gloom.

As the north express thundered into its recesses, waking strange and hollow echoes, the long sweep of the platform brought a shudder to more than one tired mind.

A string of sleepy porters--gray silhouettes against a gray background--was the only sign of life.