Peter was even conscious that the shop was tolerantly watched by inspectors, detectives, and policemen, and that it was all too childish--whatever it was--for any one to take it in the least seriously. But nevertheless there were elements of very real danger in all those blundering mysteries that had been going on now for so many years, and it was at any rate of the greatest importance to Peter, because he earned his living by it, because of his love for Stephen and his affection for Mr. Zanti, and because if once anything were to happen his one resting-place in this wild sea of London would be swept away and he would be utterly resourceless and destitute. This last fact bit him, as he sat there in the shop, with sudden and acute sharpness. What a fool he had been, all this time, to let things slide! He should have been making connections, having irons in the fire, bustling about--how could he have sat down thus happily and easily for seven years, as though such a condition of things could continue for ever? He had had wild ideas of “Reuben Hallard” making his fortune!... that showed his ignorance of the world. Let him begin to bustle. He would not lose another moment. There were two things for him now to do, to beard editors (those mythical creatures!) in their caves and to find out where Stephen lived ... both these things as soon as possible. In the afternoon the fog became of an impenetrable thickness, and beyond the shop it seemed that there was pandemonium. Some fire, blazing at some street corner, flared as though it were the beating heart of all that darkness, and the cries of men and the slow, clumsy passing of the traffic filled the bookshop with sound. No customers came; Herr Gottfried worked away at his desk, the brass clock ticked, Peter sat listening, waiting. Herr Gottfried broke the silence once with: “Peter, my friend, at ten o'clock to-night there will be a little music in my room. Herr Dettzolter and his 'cello--a little Brahms--if the fog is not too much for you.” Peter accepted. He loved the low-roofed attic, the clouds of tobacco, the dark corner where he sat and listened to Herr Gottfried's friends (German exiles like Herr Gottfried playing their beloved music). It was his only luxury. Once two men whom Peter knew very well by sight came into the shop. They were, he believed, Russians--one of them was called Oblotzky--a tall, bearded fierce-looking creature who could speak no English. Then suddenly, just as Peter was thinking of finding his way home to the boarding-house, Mr. Zanti appeared. He had been away for the last two months, but there he was, his huge body filling the shop, the fog circling his beard like a halo, beaming, calm, and unflustered as though he had just come from the next street. “Damned fog,” he said, and then he went and put his hand on Peter's shoulder and looked down at him smiling. “Well, 'ow goes the shop?” he said. “Oh, well enough,” said Peter.