He had no idea what he expected, but he knew
definitely that something deeply significant was about to happen to
them both, that they were running into some crisis.
Outside the Abbey the fog became impenetrable. The traffic had
stopped, and the lights, patches of opaque rayless crimson, added to
the confusion. There were people moving, however, faceless ghosts with
loud footfalls, feeling their way hesitatingly, and among them Mr.
Ricardo vanished. Almost at once Stonehouse lost his own bearings. In
the complete paralysis of all sense of direction which only fog can
produce, he crossed the wide street twice without knowing it. Then he
came up suddenly under the spread statue of Boadicea and into little
knots of people. A policeman was trying to move them on without
success. They hung about hopefully like children who cannot be
convinced that a show is really over.
"It's no good messing round here. You aren't helping anyone. Better
be getting home."
Stonehouse knew what had happened. It was extraordinary how sure he
was. It was almost as though he had known all along. But he said
mechanically to one slouching shadow:
"What is it?"
A face, dripping and livid in the fog, like the face of a dead man,
gaped at him.
"Some old fellow gone over--no, he didn't tumble, I tell yer. You
cawn't tumble over a four-foot parapet. Chucked 'isself, and I don't
blame 'im. One of them police-launches 'as gone out to fish 'im out.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312