"Ah, indeed!" Chilcote's answer was absent. The constable's
cheery voice jarred on him, and for the second time he was
conscious of senseless irritation.

Without a further glance at the man, he slipped out into the
court-yard and turned towards the main gate.

At the gate-way two cab lamps showed through the mist of
shifting fog like the eyes of a great cat, and the familiar
"Hansom, sir?" came to him indistinctly.

He paused by force of custom; and, stepping forward, had
almost touched the open door when a new impulse caused him to
draw back.

"No," he said, hurriedly. "No. I'll walk."

The cabman muttered, lashed his horse, and with a clatter of
hoofs and harness wheeled away; while Chilcote, still with
uncertain hastiness, crossed the road in the direction of
Whitehall.

About the Abbey the fog had partially lifted, and in the
railed garden that faces the Houses of Parliament the statues
were visible in a spectral way. But Chilcote's glance was
unstable and indifferent; he skirted the railings heedlessly,
and, crossing the road with the speed of long familiarity,
gained Whitehall on the lefthand side.