The sky was clear and warm; no sun, but the hint of a sun. Dead stillness here, and it seemed as lonely as Pentecost
As Martin took a few experimental steps to see how they sounded on concrete in this mist-world, the thought of Pentecost made him glance round.
Pentecost Prison — the observation occurred to him quite gravely — had not-moved. Though it was a very long distance away, he could see the mist lapping nearly to the top of its circular wall. He could pick out no details, and wished he could.
By the way, oughtn't Stannard to be showing up soon? As Dr. Laurier had asked, where was Stannard?
Martin made a complete circuit of the roof, studying the short chimneys and the plentitude of garden furniture. A flick of disquiet touched him when he thought of Stannard. But the man had distinctly said he was all right; he must have lost his way in the mist
Hold on! What's wrong with this roof-top?
Nothing wrong, exactly. Yet…
Martin was now standing towards the front but turning slowly round to study it eastwards. There stood the orange-and-chromium chairs, settees, and tables, vivid against brownish concrete and a pale sky. When he had come up to the roof yesterday evening to see H.M. and Masters, he had taken no particular account of the furniture. Yet it seemed to him now that it was now arranged — especially the folding beach-chairs — in a different pattern.
Nonsense! The furniture didn't get up, sportively, and rearrange itself overnight Such furniture, which suggested cocktail glasses and a portable gramophone, could hold no suggestion of the sinister. Then why was he having this damnable feeling of being watched?
Watched from where?