He took Chilcote’s hand for an instant; then, crossing the footpath, he passed into the road-way towards the Strand.

It was done in a moment; but with his going a sense of loss fell upon Chilcote.  He stood for a space, newly conscious of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar voices in the stream of passersby; then, suddenly mastered by an impulse, he wheeled rapidly and darted after the tall, lean figure so ridiculously like his own.

Half-way across Trafalgar Square he overtook the stranger.  He had paused on one of the small stone islands that break the current of traffic, and was waiting for an opportunity to cross the street.  In the glare of light from the lamp above his head, Chilcote saw for the first time that, under a remarkable neatness of appearance, his clothes were well worn—­almost shabby.  The discovery struck him with something stronger than surprise.  The idea of poverty seemed incongruous is connection with the reliance, the reserve, the personality of the man.  With a certain embarrassed haste he stepped forward and touched his arm.

“Look here,” he said, as the other turned quietly.  “I have followed you to exchange cards.  It can’t injure either of us, and I—­I have a wish to know my other self.”  He laughed nervously as he drew out his card-case.

The stranger watched him in silence.  There was the same faint contempt, but also there was a reluctant interest in his glance, as it passed from the fingers fumbling with the case to the pale face with the square jaw, straight mouth, and level eyebrows drawn low over the gray eyes.  When at last the card was held out to him he took it without remark and slipped it into his pocket.

Chilcote looked at him eagerly.  “Now the exchange?” he said.

For a second the stranger did not respond.  Then, almost unexpectedly, he smiled.

“After all, if it amuses you—­” he said; and, searching in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out the required card.

“It will leave you quite unenlightened,” he added.  “The name of a failure never spells anything.”  With another smile, partly amused, partly ironical, he stepped from the little island and disappeared into the throng of traffic.

Chilcote stood for an instant gazing at the point where he had vanished; then, turning to the lamp, he lifted the card and read the name it bore:  “Mr. John Loder, 13 Clifford’s Inn.”

II

On the morning following the night of fog Chilcote woke at nine.  He woke at the moment that his man Allsopp tiptoed across the room and laid the salver with his early cup of tea on the table beside the bed.

For several seconds he lay with his eyes shut; the effort of opening them on a fresh day—­the intimate certainty of what he would see on opening them—­seemed to weight his lids.  The heavy, half-closed curtains; the blinds severely drawn; the great room with its splendid furniture, its sober coloring, its scent of damp London winter; above all, Allsopp, silent, respectful, and respectable—­were things to dread.