He had once been there years ago on a wet Bank Holiday, and some faint instinct of memory which somehow or other had survived the burden of his sordid days suddenly reasserted itself.

He climbed the steps and passed through the portals with the beating heart of the explorer who climbs his last hill.

It was his entrance, this, into the new world whose call was tearing at his heartstrings.

He bought no catalogue, he asked no questions.

From room to room he passed with untiring footsteps.