For an instant Syme stood as rigid as the stick he leant upon.

Then with a gesture as of blind hurry, he brushed past the Professor, dashing open the door and slamming it behind him, and stood outside in the snow.
"Can that old corpse be following me ?" he asked himself, biting his yellow moustache.

"I stopped too long up in that room, so that even such leaden feet could catch me up.

One comfort is, with a little brisk walking I can put a man like that as far away as Timbuctoo.

Or am I too fanciful?
Was he really following me?
Surely Sunday would not be such a fool as to send a lame man ?" He set off at a smart pace, twisting and whirling his stick, in the direction of Covent Garden.