“And I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s happening. How’s the fog?”
“I really believe it’s thicker than ever.”
“Good. Take my arm and come for all you’re worth. There’s no difference to me between night and day or fog and sunshine; but there’s all the difference in the world to these other fellows. I figure out that Griffiths’ gang ought to be arriving just about now, if they’ve come on foot. And if they’ve come at all. The police ought to be there before them, with luck. We’ve no idea of numbers on either side; but one policeman, attacking or defending, is a match for quite a few people who haven’t made up their minds how far they want to go. And it’s a trained against an untrained force. On the other hand, the police can’t go to extremes until they’re driven.”
“And in pitch darkness,” I added, “numbers and training and the majesty of the law don’t count for much.”
“I’m banking on that. This may be a one-man show. Me. The fog’s still holding everywhere? Good again. We’re all blind for this evening, but I’ve had more than seven years’ start of the others. I haven’t bumped you once so far? I can feel when people are near. And I’m coming to know London like my own bedroom. There’s a crossing here, with rather a high kerb. Left incline to the refuge! There’s a lorry feeling his way along . . . and getting tied up with a south-bound tram. We can go on now. People aren’t frightened of a fog nearly as much as I should have expected. When I remember the agony of fear I went through when I was blinded . . . The helplessness . . . Here’s Westminster Bridge, but I don’t think it’s the least use trying that.”
We hurried along the south bank of the river and only crossed when we were safely in the rear of all possible pickets.
“What happens if we get separated?,” I asked.
“Look after yourself as best you can, but don’t call me by name. D’you know Lilliburlero? Well, pretend you’re Uncle Toby and whistle that when you get a chance, just to shew me where you are. If you want help, whistle John Peel. I’ll get to you if I can . . . Of course, we may find everything as peaceful as the grave. If we do, I think I shall still take the precaution of moving Sonia and the boys to some other part of London.”
“Bring them to Seymour Street,” I suggested.
“I will, thankfully. If we find there’s a scrap in progress, we must arrange a retreat. There’ll be nobody on the west side of the house, because there are no windows for any one to break on the ground floor; and there’s a fairly high wall round the stable-yard. If you’ll keep cavé, I’ll slip in there and go up the fire-escape. I’ll give you the first line of The Campbells Are Coming to know if the coast’s clear; if you’ll reply with Over the Hills and Far Away, I shall know I can unlock the door. From there, the way is by Smith Square, Great College Street and Dean’s Yard. The gates will be shut against us; but the police will open them. . . . Are you feeling at all nervous?”