“Mr. John Loder!” He read the name over as he walked along, and it mechanically repeated itself in his brain—­falling into measure with his steps.  Who was John Loder?  What was he?  The questions tantalized him till his pace unconsciously increased.  The thought that two men so absurdly alike could inhabit the same, city and remain unknown to each other faced him as a problem:  it tangled with his personal worries and aggravated them.  There seemed to be almost a danger in such an extraordinary likeness.  He began to regret his impetuosity in thrusting his card upon the man.  Then, again, how he had let himself go on the subject of Lexington!  How narrowly he had escaped compromise!  He turned hot and cold at the recollection of what he had said and what he might have said.  Then for the first time he paused in his walk and looked about him.

On leaving Grosvenor Square he had turned westward, moving rapidly till the Marble Arch was reached; there, still oblivious to his surroundings, he had crossed the roadway to the Edgware Road, passing along it to the labyrinth of shabby streets that lie behind Paddington.  Now, as he glanced about him, he saw with some surprise how far he had come.

The damp remnants of the fog still hung about the house-tops in a filmy veil; there were no glimpses of green to break the monotony of tone; all was quiet, dingy, neglected.  But to Chilcote the shabbiness was restful, the subdued atmosphere a satisfaction.  Among these sad houses, these passers-by, each filled with his own concerns, he experienced a sense of respite and relief.  In the fashionable streets that bounded his own horizon, if a man paused in his walk to work out an idea he instantly drew a crowd of inquisitive or contemptuous eyes; here, if a man halted for half an hour it was nobody’s business but his own.

Enjoying this thought, he wandered on for close upon an hour, moving from one street to another with steps that were listless or rapid, as inclination prompted; then, still acting with vagrant aimlessness, he stopped in his wanderings and entered a small eating-house.

The place was low-ceiled and dirty, the air hot and steaming with the smell of food, but Chilcote passed through the door and moved to one of the tables with no expression of disgust, and with far less furtive watchfulness than he used in his own house.  By a curious mental twist he felt greater freedom, larger opportunities in drab surroundings such as these than in the broad issues and weighty responsibilities of his own life.  Choosing a corner seat, he called for coffee; and there, protected by shadow and wrapped in cigarette smoke, he set about imagining himself some vagrant unit who had slipped his moorings and was blissfully adrift.

The imagination was pleasant while it lasted, but with him nothing was permanent.  Of late the greater part of his sufferings had been comprised in the irritable fickleness of all his aims—­the distaste for and impossibility of sustained effort in any direction.  He had barely lighted a second cigarette when the old restlessness fell upon him; he stirred nervously in his seat, and the cigarette was scarcely burned out when he rose, paid his small bill, and left the shop.