He
would not stop and address anyone.
There could be no certainty as to
whom he might find himself speaking
to. He would speak to no one.
He would wander about until he
came upon some clew. Even if he
came upon none, the fog would
surely lift a little and become a trifle
less dense in course of time. He
drew up the collar of his overcoat,
pulled his hat down over his eyes
and went on--his hand on the thing
he had thrust into a pocket.
He did not find his clew as he
had hoped, and instead of lifting the
fog grew heavier. He found himself
at last no longer striving for any
end, but rambling along mechanically,
feeling like a man in a dream
--a nightmare. Once he recognized
a weird suggestion in the mystery
about him. To-morrow might
one be wandering about aimlessly in
some such haze. He hoped not.
His lodgings were not far from
the Embankment, and he knew at
last that he was wandering along it,
and had reached one of the bridges.
His mood led him to turn in upon
it, and when he reached an embrasure
to stop near it and lean upon the
parapet looking down. He could
not see the water, the fog was too
dense, but he could hear some faint
splashing against stones. He had
taken no food and was rather faint.
What a strange thing it was to feel
faint for want of food--to stand
alone, cut off from every other
human being--everything done for.
No wonder that sometimes, particularly
on such days as these, there
were plunges made from the parapet
--no wonder.
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