I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands into his pockets.
“Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine. Something.”
The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we started across the street.
“Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine. Notice the shadows, like ghosts.”
We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.
“Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was sudden and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and I side-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again he peered into the shadow.
“Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”
He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.
“Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!”
I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither did he.