he said, "a man walking the pavement with the dread of a
timid-looking young man with spectacles continually hovering before his
eyes. And there was some tremendous feeling at work, I could swear to
that." Quick as thought, before he had finished the sentence, a head
popped round the barrier, and was withdrawn again; and while Dyson was
wondering what this could mean, the door of the compartment was swung
open, and a smooth, clean-shaven, and smiling gentleman entered. "You will excuse me, sir," he said politely, "for intruding on your
thoughts, but you made a remark a minute ago." "I did," said Dyson; "I have been puzzling over a foolish matter, and I
thought aloud. As you heard what I said, and seem interested, perhaps
you may be able to relieve my perplexity?" "Indeed. I scarcely know; it is an odd coincidence. One has to be
cautions. I suppose, sir, that you would have no repulsion in assisting
the ends of justice." "Justice," replied Dyson, "is a term of such wide meaning, that I too
feel doubtful about giving an answer. But this place is not altogether
fit for such a discussion; perhaps you would come to my rooms?" "You are very kind; my name is Burton, but I am sorry to say I have not
a card with me. Do you live near here?" "Within ten minutes' walk." Mr. Burton took out his watch and seemed to be making a rapid
calculation. "I have a train to catch," he said; "but after all, it is a late one. So, if you don't mind, I think I will come with you. I am sure we should
have a little talk together. We turn up here?" The theatres were filling as they crossed the Strand, the street seemed
alive with voices, and Dyson looked fondly about him. The glittering
lines of gas-lamps, with here and there the blinding radiance of an
electric light, the hansoms that flashed to and fro with ringing bells,
the laden buses, and the eager hurrying east and west of the foot
passengers, made his most enchanting picture; and the graceful spire of
St. Mary le Strand, on the one hand, and the last flush of sunset on the
other, were to him a cause of thanksgiving, as the gorse blossom to
Linnæus. Mr. Burton caught his look of fondness as they crossed the
street. "I see you can find the picturesque in London," he said. "To me this
great town is as I see it is to you, the study and the love of life. Yet
how few there are that can pierce the veils of apparent monotony and
meanness! I have read in a paper which is said to have the largest
circulation in the world, a comparison between the aspects of London and
Paris, a comparison which should be positively laureat, as the great
masterpiece of fatuous stupidity. Conceive if you can a human being of
ordinary intelligence preferring the Boulevards to our London streets;
imagine a man calling for the wholesale destruction of our most charming
city, in order that the dull uniformity of that whited sepulchre called
Paris should be reproduced here in London. Is it not positively
incredible?" "My dear sir," said Dyson, regarding Burton with a good deal of
interest. "I agree most heartily with your opinions, but I really cannot
share your wonder. Have you heard how much George Eliot received for
'Romola'? Do you know what the circulation of 'Robert Elsmere' was? Do
you read 'Tit Bits' regularly? To me, on the contrary, it is constant
matter both for wonder and thanksgiving that London was not
boulevardized twenty years ago. I praise that exquisite jagged sky line
that stands up against the pale greens and fading blues and flushing
clouds of sunset, but I wonder even more than I praise. As for St. Mary
le Strand, its preservation is a miracle, nothing more or less. A thing
of exquisite beauty _versus_ four buses abreast! Really, the conclusion
is too obvious. Didn't you read the letter of the man who proposed that
the whole mysterious system, the immemorial plan of computing Easter,
should, be abolished off-hand because he doesn't like his son having his
holidays as early as March 20th? But shall we be going on?" They had lingered at the corner of a street on the north side of the
Strand, enjoying the contrasts and the glamour of the scene. Dyson
pointed the way with a gesture, and they strolled up the comparatively
deserted streets, slanting a little to the right, and thus arriving at
Dyson's lodging on the verge of Bloomsbury. Mr. Burton took a
comfortable armchair by the open window, while Dyson lit the candles and
produced the whiskey and soda and cigarettes. "They tell me these cigarettes are very good," he said, "but I know
nothing about it myself. I hold at last that there is only one tobacco,
and that is shag. I suppose I could not tempt you to try a pipeful?" Mr. Burton smilingly refused the offer, and picked out a cigarette from
the box. When he had smoked it half through, he said with some
hesitation:--

"It is really kind of you to have me here, Mr. Dyson; the fact is that
the interests at issue are far too serious to be discussed in a bar,
where, as you found for yourself, there may be listeners, voluntary or
involuntary, on each side. I think the remark I heard you make was
something about the oddity of an individual going about London in deadly
fear of a young man with spectacles." "Yes, that was it." "Well, would you mind confiding to me the circumstances that gave rise
to the reflection?" "Not in the least; it was like this." And he ran over in brief outline
the adventure in Oxford Street, dwelling on the violence of Mr.
Wilkins's gestures, but wholly suppressing the tale told in the café. "He told me he lived in constant terror of meeting this man; and I left
him when I thought he was cool enough to look after himself," said
Dyson, ending his narrative. "Really," said Mr. Burton. "And you actually saw this mysterious
person." "Yes." "And could you describe him?" "Well, he looked to me a youngish man, pale and nervous. He had small
black side whiskers, and wore rather large spectacles." "But this is simply marvellous! You astonish me. For I must tell you
that my interest in the matter is this. I am not in the least in terror
of meeting a dark young man with spectacles, but I shrewdly suspect a
person of that description would much rather not meet me. And yet the
account you give of the man tallies exactly. A nervous glance to right
and left--is it not so? And, as you observed, he wears prominent
spectacles, and has small black whiskers. There cannot be surely two
people exactly identical--one a cause of terror, and the other, I should
imagine, extremely anxious to get out of the way. But have you seen this
man since?" "No, I have not; and I have been looking out for him pretty keenly. But,
of course, he may have left London, and England too for the matter of
that." Hardly, I think. Well, Mr. Dyson, it is only fair that I should explain
my story, now that I have listened, to yours. I must tell you, then,
that I am an agent for curiosities and precious things of all kinds. An
odd employment, isn't it?