Suddenly the pursued came to a dead stop and gazed for twenty minutes in at a pastry-cook's window. Andrew waited for him. Then they started off again, much more leisurely.
They turned Chancery Lane almost together. All this time Andrew had failed to catch sight of the other's face.
He stopped twice in the Strand for a few minutes.
At Charing Cross he seemed for a moment at a loss. Then he sprang across the street, and went back the way he came.
It was now for the first time that a strange notion illumined Andrew's brain. It bewildered him, and left him in darkness the next moment. But his blood was running hot now, and his eyes were glassy.
They turned down Arundel Street.
It was getting dark. There were not a dozen people in the narrow thoroughfare.
His former thought leapt back into Andrew's mind—not a fancy now, but a fact. The stranger was following someone too.
For what purpose? His own?
Andrew did not put the question to himself.