he sometimes catches pike or perch in the Medway some way from the stream where the trout rise in audacious security from artificial lures.  I stipulated for a clerk to come down with any papers to be signed, and started at once for Victoria.  I decline to tell the name of my find, firstly because the trout are the gamest little fish that ever rose to fly and run to a good two pounds.  Secondly, I have paid for all the rooms in the inn for the next year, and I want it to myself.  The glove is lying on the table next me as I write.  If it isn’t in my breast-pocket or under my pillow, it is in some place where I can see it.  It has a delicate grey body (suede, I think they call it) with a whipping of silver round the top, and a darker grey silk tag to fasten it.  It is marked 5-3/4 inside, and has a delicious scent about it, to keep off moths, I suppose; naphthaline is better.  It reminds me of a ‘silver-sedge’ tied on a ten hook.  I startled the good landlady of the little inn (there is no village fortunately) when I arrived with the only porter of the tiny station laden with traps.  She hesitated about a private sitting-room, but eventually we compromised matters, as I was willing to share it with the other visitor.  I got into knickerbockers at once, collared a boy to get me worms and minnow for the morrow, and as I felt too lazy to unpack tackle, just sat in the shiny armchair (made comfortable by the successive sitting of former occupants) at the open window and looked out.  The river, not the trout stream, winds to the right, and the trees cast trembling shadows into its clear depths.  The red tiles of a farm roof show between the beeches, and break the monotony of blue sky background.  A dusty waggoner is slaking his thirst with a tankard of ale.  I am conscious of the strange lonely feeling that a visit to England always gives me.  Away in strange lands, even in solitary places, one doesn’t feel it somehow.  One is filled with the hunter’s lust, bent on a ‘kill’, but at home in the quiet country, with the smoke curling up from some fireside, the mowers busy laying the hay in swaths, the children tumbling under the trees in the orchards, and a girl singing as she spreads the clothes on the sweetbriar hedge, amidst a scene quick with home sights and sounds, a strange lack creeps in and makes itself felt in a dull, aching way.  Oddly enough, too, I had a sense of uneasiness, a ‘something going to happen’.  I had often experienced it when out alone in a great forest, or on an unknown lake, and it always meant ‘ware danger’ of some kind.  But why should I feel it here?  Yet I did, and I couldn’t shake it off.  I took to examining the room.  It was a commonplace one of the usual type.  But there was a work-basket on the table, a dainty thing, lined with blue satin.  There was a bit of lace stretched over shiny blue linen, with the needle sticking in it; such fairy work, like cobwebs seen from below, spun from a branch against a background of sky.  A gold thimble, too,