There the fog had dropped, and, looking upward towards
Trafalgar Square, it seemed that the chain of lamps extended
little farther than the Horse Guards, and that beyond lay
nothing.

Unconscious of this capricious alternation between darkness
and light, Chilcote continued his course. To a close observer
the manner of his going had both interest and suggestion; for
though he walked on, apparently self-engrossed, yet at every
dozen steps he started at some sound or some touch, like a
man whose nervous system is painfully overstrung.

Maintaining his haste, he went deliberately forward, oblivious
of the fact that at each step the curtain of darkness about
him became closer, damper, more tangible; that at each second
the passers-by jostled each other with greater frequency. Then,
abruptly, with a sudden realization of what had happened, he
stood quite still. Without anticipation or preparation he had
walked full into the thickness of the fog--a thickness so
dense that, as by an enchanter's wand, the figures of a moment
before melted, the street lamps were sucked up into the night.

His first feeling was a sense of panic at the sudden isolation,
his second a thrill of nervous apprehension at the oblivion
that had allowed him to be so entrapped. The second feeling
outweighed the first. He moved forward, then paused again,
uncertain of himself. Finally, with the consciousness that
inaction was unbearable, he moved on once more, his eyes wide
open, one hand thrust out as a protection and guide.