The fog had closed in behind him as heavily as in front,
shutting off all possibility of retreat; all about him in
the darkness was a confusion of voices--cheerful, dubious,
alarmed, or angry; now and then a sleeve brushed his or a hand
touched him tentatively. It was a strange moment, a moment of
possibilities, to which the crunching wheels, the oaths and
laughter from the blocked traffic of the road-way, made a
continuous accompaniment.

Keeping well to the left, Chilcote still beat on; there was a
persistence in his movements that almost amounted to fear
--a fear born of the solitude filled with innumerable sounds.
For a space he groped about him without result, then his
fingers touched the cold surface of a shuttered shop-front,
and a thrill of reassurance passed through him. With renewed
haste, and clinging to his landmark as a blind man might, he
started forward with fresh impetus.

For a dozen paces he moved rapidly and unevenly, then the
natural result occurred. He collided with a man coming in the
opposite direction.

The shock was abrupt. Both men swore simultaneously, then
both laughed. The whole thing was casual, but Chilcote was in
that state of mind when even the commonplace becomes abnormal.
The other man's exclamation, the other man's laugh, struck on
his nerves; coming out of the darkness, they sounded like a
repetition of his own.

Nine out of every ten men in London, given the same social