'I wonder.' The tall man puffed at his cigar. 'I'd give--well, Grey, I won't say how much, but I'd give a bit to have him stand in front of me just here and now. That kind of fellow makes me sick. The common or garden preacher I don't mind; he has his uses. But the kind of creature who tries to trade on the folly of the great majority, by trying to make out that he's something which he isn't--whenever he's about there ought to be a pump just handy. We're too lenient to cattle of his particular breed.'
'Suppose, Boyle, this mysterious stranger were to appear in Piccadilly now, what's the odds that you, for one, wouldn't try to plug him in the eye?'
'I don't know about me, but I'm inclined to think that there are others who would endeavour their little best to reach him thereabouts. Piccadilly at this time of night is hardly the place for a mysterious anyone to cut a figure to much advantage. I fancy there'd be ructions. Anyhow, I'd like to see him come.'
Mr. Boyle's tone was grim. His companion laughed; but before the sound of his laughter had long died out the speaker's wish was gratified.
All in an instant, without any sort of warning, there was one of those scenes which occur in Piccadilly on most nights of the week. A woman had been drinking; she was young, new to her trade, still unaccustomed to the misuse of stimulants. She made a noise. A female acquaintance endeavoured to induce her to go away; in vain. The girl, pulling up her skirts, began to dance and shout, and to behave like a virago, among the throng of loiterers who were peopling the pavement. A man made some chaffing remark to her. She flew at him like a tiger-cat. Directly there was an uproar. There are times and seasons when it requires but a very little thing to transform those midnight Saturnalia into chaos. The police hurled themselves into the struggling throng, making captives of practically everyone on whom they could lay their hands.
The crowd was in uncomfortable proximity to Mr. Grey and his friend. It swayed in their direction.
'We'd better clear out of this, Boyle, before there's an ugly rush comes our way. Let's get across the road. I'm in no humour for skittles to-night, if you don't mind.'
The speaker glanced smilingly towards the seething throng. It was the humorous side of the thing which appealed to him; he had seen it so often before. Boyle diverted his attention.
'Hollo! who's this?'
Someone stepped from the roadway on to the pavement, moving quickly, yet lightly, so that there was about His actions no appearance of haste. He held His hands a little raised. People made way to let Him pass, as if they knew that He was coming, even though He approached them in silence from behind.