And then a thing happened that we really had not expected.

Mr Wimpole and Sir Walter Cholmondeliegh came out at the same moment.
They paused for a second or two opposite each other in a natural doubt; then a certain geniality, fundamental perhaps in both of them, made Sir Walter smile and say: "The night is foggy.

Pray take my cab." Before I could count twenty the cab had gone rattling up the street with both of them.

And before I could count twenty-three Grant had hissed in my ear: "Run after the cab; run as if you were running from a mad dog--run." We pelted on steadily, keeping the cab in sight, through dark mazy streets.

God only, I thought, knows why we are running at all, but we are running hard.