Everywhere, he was reminded of the treasured delusion from which he
had been awakened so cruelly--of the lost memory which had passed from
him like a reflection from a glass.
Inquiring here, inquiring there, he could hear of no such place as Lime-
Tree Lodge. Passing a house-agent's office, he went in wearily, and put
the question for the last time. The house-agent pointed across the
street to a dreary mansion of many windows, which might have been a
manufactory, but which was an hotel. "That's where Lime-Tree Lodge
stood, sir," said the man, "ten years ago."
The second stage reached, and No Thoroughfare again!
But one chance was left. The clerical reference, Mr. Harker, still
remained to be found. Customers coming in at the moment to occupy the
house-agent's attention, Wilding went down the street, and entering a
bookseller's shop, asked if he could be informed of the Reverend John
Harker's present address.
The bookseller looked unaffectedly shocked and astonished, and made no
answer.
Wilding repeated his question.
The bookseller took up from his counter a prim little volume in a binding
of sober gray. He handed it to his visitor, open at the title-page.
Wilding read:
"The martyrdom of the Reverend John Harker in New Zealand. Related by a
former member of his flock."
Wilding put the book down on the counter. "I beg your pardon," he said
thinking a little, perhaps, of his own present martyrdom while he spoke.
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