As these distressing thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, he heard the stranger step up to him, and in a moment, a voice said, “A fine evening, sir.”
Gray stretched out his hand, and held by an iron rail, while he turned slowly and with pallid features, and his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth with fright, faced the speaker.
He was a man about the middle height, with sharp small grey eyes, which twinkled upon the terror-stricken Jacob as much as to say, “I am a cunning, cautious fellow, and you won’t escape me.”
It was full a minute before Gray could command himself sufficiently to speak, and the stranger during that time had repeated his remark of,—
“A fine evening.”
“Yes—yes, very,” stammered Gray.
“You don’t seem very well, sir,” said the stranger, twinkling his eyes designedly upon Gray.
“Yes, quite well, thank—I—I haven’t the honour of knowing you. Good evening—good evening.”
“I may be mistaken,” said the man; “but I think I have seen you somewhere.”
Gray would have given anything at that moment to say “Where?” but he lacked the courage, and merely muttered something about it being unlikely they had ever met, as he was a stranger in London.