`Il est souffrant, ce pauvre Monsieur Soames?' asked Berthe.

`He's only--tired.' I asked her to get some wine--Burgundy--
and whatever food might be ready. Soames sat crouched
forward against the table, exactly as when last I had seen him.
It was as though he had never moved--he who had moved so
unimaginably far. Once or twice in the afternoon it had for an
instant occurred to me that perhaps his journey was not to be
fruitless--that perhaps we had all been wrong in our estimate of
the works of Enoch Soames. That we had been horribly right
was horribly clear from the look of him. But `Don't be
discouraged,' I falteringly said. `Perhaps it's only that you--
didn't leave enough time. Two, three centuries hence, perhaps--'

`Yes,' his voice came. `I've thought of that.'

`And now--now for the more immediate future! Where are you
going to hide? How would it be if you caught the Paris express
from Charing Cross? Almost an hour to spare. Don't go on to
Paris. Stop at Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of
looking for you in Calais.'

`It's like my luck,' he said, `to spend my last hours on earth
with an ass.' But I was not offended. `And a treacherous ass,'
he strangely added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper
which he had been holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing
on it--some sort of gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently
aside.

`Come, Soames! pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter