Half-way across Trafalgar Square he overtook the stranger. He had paused on one of the small stone islands that break the current of traffic, and was waiting for an opportunity to cross the street. In the glare of light from the lamp above his head, Chilcote saw for the first time that, under a remarkable neatness of appearance, his clothes were well worn—almost shabby. The discovery struck him with something stronger than surprise. The idea of poverty seemed incongruous is connection with the reliance, the reserve, the personality of the man. With a certain embarrassed haste he stepped forward and touched his arm.
“Look here,” he said, as the other turned quietly. “I have followed you to exchange cards. It can't injure either of us, and I—I have a wish to know my other self.” He laughed nervously as he drew out his card-case.
The stranger watched him in silence. There was the same faint contempt, but also there was a reluctant interest in his glance, as it passed from the fingers fumbling with the case to the pale face with the square jaw, straight mouth, and level eyebrows drawn low over the gray eyes. When at last the card was held out to him he took it without remark and slipped it into his pocket.
Chilcote looked at him eagerly. “Now the exchange?” he said.
For a second the stranger did not respond. Then, almost unexpectedly, he smiled.
“After all, if it amuses you—” he said; and, searching in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out the required card.
“It will leave you quite unenlightened,” he added. “The name of a failure never spells anything.” With another smile, partly amused, partly ironical, he stepped from the little island and disappeared into the throng of traffic.
Chilcote stood for an instant gazing at the point where he had vanished; then, turning to the lamp, he lifted the card and read the name it bore: “Mr. John Loder, 13 Clifford's Inn.”