There were but few persons about; I took no notice of them, nor they of me. Small incidents became unduly magnified. I had walked some three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of Westminster Abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. I paused and listened with extreme attention, standing quite motionless and counting the strokes till the hour was fully announced. It appeared to me a singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular, also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping over the streets. It was only when I was again in motion that the significance of time, in relation to the purpose I had in view, impressed me. "Three o'clock," I thought. "At four I shall be dead." Crossing the road at the top of Parliament Street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against me. In a spirit of fury I grappled and threw him to the ground--and stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. All my senses were alert for evil. The man did not stir, and I passed on. But I had not proceeded far before I stopped to consider whether I had killed him. I groped my way back to the spot upon which I had left him. The man was gone. I was neither glad nor sorry. A woman--one of the misery's children--accosted me; appealed to me, for the love of God, to give her a penny for a cup of coffee. The coffee stall, which I had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us; its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-like forms hung about it. I gave the woman a shilling, and continued on my way. I was now on Westminster Bridge. The fog was thickening. I could scarcely see the water. The dull reflection of the lamps on the Embankment added to the general despondency of the scene. I was enwrapped in gloom and silence. I walked to the end of the bridge, and stood on the steps leading down to the river. Upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fate! A chance turning this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to destruction or salvation. I heard the muffled tread of a policeman, and fearing that I had been seen, and my purpose discovered, I did not descend the steps, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards Kennington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful design. The probability is that I had not been seen, and should not have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow me, and the echo of his footsteps gradually died away. When I was assured of this I should have turned again towards the river had not a simple incident changed the whole current of my life. The sound of a woman's suppressed sobs fell upon my ear. CHAPTER XVII.