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 position and the same education, might reasonably be expected to express annoyance or amusement in the same manner, possibly in the same tone of voice; and Chilcote remembered this almost at the moment of his nervous jar.

“Beastly fog!” he said, aloud.  “I’m trying to find Grosvenor Square, but the chances seem rather small.”

The other laughed again, and again the laugh upset Chilcote.  He wondered uncomfortably if he was becoming a prey to illusions.  But the stranger spoke before the question had solved itself.

“I’m afraid they are small,” he said.  “It would be almost hard to find one’s way to the devil on a night like this.”

Chilcote made a murmur of amusement and drew back against the shop.

“Yes.  We can see now where the blind man scores in the matter of salvation.  This is almost a repetition of the fog of six years ago.  Were you out in that?”

It was a habit of his to jump from one sentence to another, a habit that had grown of late.

“No.”  The stranger had also groped his way to the shopfront.  “No, I was out of England six years ago.”

“You were lucky.”  Chilcote turned up the collar of his coat.  “It was an atrocious fog, as black as this, but more universal.  I remember it well.  It was the night Lexington made his great sugar speech.  Some of us were found on Lambeth Bridge at three in the morning, having left the House at twelve.”

Chilcote seldom indulged in reminiscences, but this conversation with an unseen companion was more like a soliloquy than a dialogue.  He was almost surprised into an exclamation when the other caught up his words.

“Ah!  The sugar speech!” he said.  “Odd that I should have been looking it up only yesterday.  What a magnificent dressing-up of a dry subject it was!  What a career Lexington promised in those days!”

Chilcote changed his position.