As he went down the narrow staircase, covered with its dingy and threadbare carpet, he found the house so full of dirty yellow haze that he realized that the fog must be of the extraordinary ones which are remembered in after-years as abnormal specimens of their kind.He recalled that there had been one of the sort three years before, and that traffic and business had been almost entirely stopped by it, that accidents had happened in the streets, and that people having lost their way had wandered about turning corners until they found themselves far from their intended destinations and obliged to take refuge in hotels or the houses of hospitable strangers.Curious incidents had occurred and odd stories were told by those who had felt themselves obliged by circumstances to go out into the baffling gloom.
He guessed that something of a like nature had fallen upon the town again.The gas-light on the landings and in the melancholy hall burned feebly--so feebly that one got but a vague view of the rickety hat-stand and the shabby overcoats and head-gear hanging upon it.It was well for him that he had but a corner or so to turn before he reached the pawnshop in whose window he had seen the pistol he intended to buy.
When he opened the street-door he saw that the fog was, upon the whole, perhaps even heavier and more obscuring, if possible, than the one so well remembered.He could not see anything three feet before him, he could not see with distinctness anything two feet ahead.The sensation of stepping forward was uncertain and mysterious enough to be almost appalling.A man not sufficiently cautious might have fallen into any open hole in his path.Antony Dart kept as closely as possible to the sides of the houses.It would have been easy to walk off the pavement into the middle of the street but for the edges of the curb and the step downward from its level.Traffic had almost absolutely ceased, though in the more important streets link-boys were making efforts to guide men or four-wheelers slowly along.
The blind feeling of the thing was rather awful.Though but few pedestrians were out, Dart found himself once or twice brushing against or coming into forcible contact with men feeling their way about like himself.
"One turn to the right," he repeated mentally, "two to the left, and the place is at the corner of the other side of the street."He managed to reach it at last, but it had been a slow, and therefore, long journey.All the gas-jets the little shop owned were lighted, but even under their flare the articles in the window--the one or two once cheaply gaudy dresses and shawls and men's garments--hung in the haze like the dreary, dangling ghosts of things recently executed.
Among watches and forlorn pieces of old-fashioned jewelry and odds and ends, the pistol lay against the folds of a dirty gauze shawl.There it was.It would have been annoying if someone else had been beforehand and had bought it.
Inside the shop more dangling spectres hung and the place was almost dark.It was a shabby pawnshop, and the man lounging behind the counter was a shabby man with an unshaven, unamiable face.
"I want to look at that pistol in the right-hand corner of your window,"Antony Dart said.
The pawnbroker uttered a sound something between a half-laugh and a grunt.He took the weapon from the window.
Antony Dart examined it critically.
He must make quite sure of it.He made no further remark.
He felt he had done with speech.
Being told the price asked for the purchase, he drew out his purse and took the money from it.After making the payment he noted that he still possessed a five-pound note and some sovereigns.There passed through his mind a wonder as to who would spend it.The most decent thing, perhaps, would be to give it away.If it was in his room --to-morrow--the parish would not bury him, and it would be safer that the parish should.
He was thinking of this as he left the shop and began to cross the street.Because his mind was wandering he was less watchful.Suddenly a rubber-tired hansom, moving without sound, appeared immediately in his path--the horse's head loomed up above his own.He made the inevitable involuntary whirl aside to move out of the way, the hansom passed, and turning again, he went on.His movement had been too swift to allow of his realizing the direction in which his turn had been made.He was wholly unaware that when he crossed the street he crossed backward instead of forward.He turned a corner literally feeling his way, went on, turned another, and after walking the length of the street, suddenly understood that he was in a strange place and had lost his bearings.
This was exactly what had happened to people on the day of the memorable fog of three years before.
He had heard them talking of such experiences, and of the curious and baffling sensations they gave rise to in the brain.Now he understood them.He could not be far from his lodgings, but he felt like a man who was blind, and who had been turned out of the path he knew.
He had not the resource of the people whose stories he had heard.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.
