He found himself thinking of the wondrous face which had appeared to him as he stood at the door of Wendover Park, and he remembered the words that came to him.
"Pray, pray!" the voice had said. "Watch and pray!"
"God help me!" he cried almost involuntarily. "Great God help me!"
He still threaded his way through the crowd in the great thoroughfare, almost unconscious of what he did. He was scarcely aware that he had uttered a cry to Heaven for help. He passed the end of Chancery Lane and then came to the old timbered houses which stand opposite Gray's Inn Road. But this ancient part of London did not appeal to him. He did not notice that the houses were different from others. He was almost like a man in a dream.
Then suddenly he found himself in Staple Inn. How he had come there he did not know. He had no remembrance of passing through the old doorway, but he was there, and the change from the roar of the great thoroughfare outside and the silence of this little sequestered nook impressed him.
There was not a soul visible in the little square. As all Londoners know, Staple Inn is one of the smallest and quietest in the metropolis. The houses which form it are mostly occupied by professional men, and there is scarcely ever anything like traffic there. But this afternoon there was no one to be seen, and the change from the crowded highway was pleasant.
"What in the world am I doing here?" he asked himself.
But before he had time to answer the question he had propounded he realised a strange sensation. Although he could see nothing, he felt that some presence was near him.
"Listen."
The word was scarcely above a whisper, but he heard it plainly. He looked around him, his senses alert, but nothing was to be seen.