“Hallo,” responded the other.
For a moment they stood awkwardly, staring; then Gurney said, “Any more news?”
The man, who was a sub-editor of the Westminster Gazette, shook his head. “I’m just going back now,” he said. “There was nothing ten minutes ago.”
“Pretty awful, isn’t it?” remarked Gurney.
The sub-editor shrugged his shoulders and hurried away.
Presently Gurney found himself wedged among the crowd, watching the Daily Chronicle window.
A few minutes after three, a young man with a very white face, fastened a type-written message to the glass.
There was a rapid constriction of the crowd. Those behind, Gurney among them, could not read the message, and pressed forward. There were cries of “What is it?... I can’t see.... Read it out....” Then those in front gave way slightly, a wave of eagerness agitated the mass of watchers, and the news ran back from the front. “Two more cases of plague in Dundee; one in Edinburgh.”
And with that the pressure of dread was suddenly dissipated, giving place to something kinetic, dynamic. Now it was fear that took the people by the throat: active, compelling fear. Men looked at each other with terror and something of hate in their eyes, the crowd broke and melted. Every man was going to his own home, possessed by an instinct to fly before it was too late.
Gurney shouldered his way out, and stopped a taxi that was crawling past.