He knew, as the growl of the ferry-whistles grew louder, that he was nearing the river. He felt as ungainly as a tortoise scuffling back to its water-edge of escape, but his confidence began to return to him as he found himself nearer and nearer his brink of delivery. He could perceive the ridiculous figure he had cut. He could even realise that he had defeated his own ends. He was conscious of a growing overtone of discontent, a peevish resentment against his own white-livered irresolution. And he would go aboard, and the next day be out at sea, with the mystery of it all still unanswered.
He strode on through the fog. It was not until he came to a narrow street-crossing between two blank-windowed warehouses that he saw his way obstructed. But he noticed, as he came to a sudden stop, that his path was barred by a cab with an open door. It blocked the crossing, very much as a Neapolitan corricolo manœuvres for a fare by cutting across a pedestrian's path.
The youth drew up and peered in through that door, with a slightly quickened pulse, wondering why the impassive figure on the box should be thus blocking his way.
Then he saw that the cab was not empty.
Leaning quietly forward from the seat was
