Putting on my hat I opened the front door and stepped out into the
street. At any cost I would endeavour to reach the Home Office, and tell
my story there, before Pharos could prevent me. With this end in view I
hurried toward Piccadilly, intending to take a cab there and so save
time. But when I set out I had not the least notion of the misery that
had befallen London, nor of anything that had happened since Pharos had
pointed his finger at me. In my wildest dreams I had never imagined such
a picture of desolation as that which was now presented to me. It seemed
impossible that so terrible a change should have come over a city in so
short a time (I must remind you here that I still believed that only
twenty hours had elapsed since I had had my fatal interview with
Pharos). In all Park Lane not a house, save that occupied by Pharos,
showed any sign of being inhabited. Without exception the blinds were
down, and in most cases the shutters had been put up, while in numerous
instances broad lines of red paint had been drawn across the pavement
opposite them, but for what purpose, or their indication, I had not the
remotest idea. In Piccadilly, from Apsley House to Berkeley Street, it
was the same, though here a few solitary foot-passengers were to be
seen. Thinking I must have mistaken the hour, and that it was earlier
than I supposed, I looked at my watch, but it said a quarter to ten. In
vain I searched for a cab of any sort. In the road, usually so crowded
at that hour with vehicles of all descriptions, omnibuses, hansoms,
private carriages, vans, and even costermongers' barrows, two dogs were
fighting over a piece of food. But the silence was the worst part of it
all. Not a sound, save the chirruping of the sparrows in the trees of
the park, was to be heard. Realising that it was useless waiting for a
cab, I crossed the road and entered the Green Park, intending to make my
way to St. James's Park, and thence to the Home Office. With feverish
haste I pushed on, walking as if every life in England depended on my
speed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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