"Go to Wendover."
But there was nothing distinct. No voice reached him, and no one was in sight. At that moment the wind wailed across the open space, and moaned as it passed through the leafless branches of the trees. The wind seemed to formulate the same words.
"Go to Wendover."
"Of course it's all fancy," he reflected. "I expect my nerves are playing me tricks. I never knew I had any nerves; but I've been through an exciting time. I've been making speeches, meeting committees, and replying to deputations for the last fortnight, and I expect I'm about done up. After all, fighting an election is no make-believe."
A shiver passed through him. To say the least of it, even although it might be pure fancy, there was something uncanny about it all, and he could not help reflecting on his past experience.
He did not move, but stood like one spellbound, listening to the wind as it soughed its way through the shrubs and trees which grew in the centre of the Square.
"Who are you?" he asked again. "What do you want?"
He was sure there was a voice this time. It rose above the wailing wind, but he could see no one.
"You are in danger—great danger!"
"What danger? Who are you?"