“Do you remember Karain?”

I nodded.

“The sight of all this made me think of him,” he went on, with his face near the glass . . . and I could see another man, powerful and bearded, peering at him intently from amongst the dark and polished tubes that can cure so many illusions.  “Yes; it made me think of him,” he continued, slowly.  “I saw a paper this morning; they are fighting over there again.  He’s sure to be in it.  He will make it hot for the caballeros.  Well, good luck to him, poor devil!  He was perfectly stunning.”

We walked on.

“I wonder whether the charm worked—­you remember Hollis’s charm, of course.  If it did . . .  Never was a sixpence wasted to better advantage!  Poor devil!  I wonder whether he got rid of that friend of his.  Hope so. . . .  Do you know, I sometimes think that—­”

I stood still and looked at him.

“Yes . . .  I mean, whether the thing was so, you know . . . whether it really happened to him. . . .  What do you think?”

“My dear chap,” I cried, “you have been too long away from home.  What a question to ask!  Only look at all this.”

A watery gleam of sunshine flashed from the west and went out between two long lines of walls; and then the broken confusion of roofs, the chimney-stacks, the gold letters sprawling over the fronts of houses, the sombre polish of windows, stood resigned and sullen under the falling gloom.  The whole length of the street, deep as a well and narrow like a corridor, was full of a sombre and ceaseless stir.  Our ears were filled by a headlong shuffle and beat of rapid footsteps and by an underlying rumour—­a rumour vast, faint, pulsating, as of panting breaths, of beating hearts, of gasping voices.  Innumerable eyes stared straight in front, feet moved hurriedly, blank faces flowed, arms swung.  Over all, a narrow ragged strip of smoky sky wound about between the high roofs, extended and motionless, like a soiled streamer flying above the rout of a mob.

“Ye-e-e-s,” said Jackson, meditatively.

The big wheels of hansoms turned slowly along the edge of side-walks; a pale-faced youth strolled, overcome by weariness, by the side of his stick and with the tails of his overcoat flapping gently near his heels; horses stepped gingerly on the greasy pavement, tossing their heads; two young girls passed by, talking vivaciously and with shining eyes; a fine old fellow strutted, red-faced, stroking a white moustache; and a line of yellow boards with blue letters on them approached us slowly, tossing on high behind one another like some queer wreckage adrift upon a river of hats.

“Ye-e-es,” repeated Jackson.  His clear blue eyes looked about, contemptuous, amused and hard, like the eyes of a boy.  A clumsy string of red, yellow, and green omnibuses rolled swaying, monstrous and gaudy; two shabby children ran across the road; a knot of dirty men with red neckerchiefs round their bare throats lurched along, discussing filthily; a ragged old man with a face of despair yelled horribly in the mud the name of a paper; while far off, amongst the tossing heads of horses, the dull flash of harnesses, the jumble of lustrous panels and roofs of carriages, we could see a policeman, helmeted and dark, stretching out a rigid arm at the crossing of the streets.