only, a little to the right, the feeble glow of the lamp blew hither and thither in the wind. The rain had stopped but all the pipes and funnels of the city were roaring with water. The noise was that of a thousand chattering voices, and very faintly through the tumult the bells of St. Matthews in Euston Square tinkled the hour.
On the steps a figure was standing bending beneath the wind. The light from the hall shone out on to the black slabs of stone, bright with the shining rain, but his cape covered the man's head. Nevertheless Peter knew at once who it was.
“Stephen,” he said, quietly.
The hall door was flung to with a crash; the wind hurled Peter against Stephen's body.
“At last! Oh, Stephen! Why didn't you come before?”
“I couldn't. Master Peter. I oughtn't to of come now, but I 'ad to see yer face a minute. Not more than a minute though—”
“But you must come in now, and get dry things on at once. I'll see Mrs. Brockett, she'll get you a room. I'm not going to let you go now that—”
“No, Master Peter, I can't stop. I mustn't. I 'aven't been so far away all this time as you might have thought. But I mustn't see yer unless I can be of use to yer. And that's what I've come about.”
He pressed close up to Peter, held both his hands in his and said: “Look 'ere, Peter boy, yer may be wanting me soon—no, I can't say more than that. But I want yer—to be on the look-out. Down there at the bookshop be ready, and then if any sort o' thing should 'appen down along—why I'm there, d'ye see? I'll be with yer when you want me—”
“Well, but Stephen, what do you mean? What could happen? Anyhow you mustn't go now, like this. I won't let you go—”
“Ah, but I must now—I must. Maybe we shall be meeting soon enough. Only I'm there, boy, if yer wants me. And—keep yer eye open—”
In an instant that warm pressure of the hand was gone;
