“Because . . . one is sometimes extraordinarily helpless without one’s eyes.” “But this isn’t your show. Sonia set the match to the fire; and I must put it out.” “I may be able to lend a hand.” O’Rane stood silent for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned to the door: “I’m not going to let you in for this. You have . . . other responsibilities.” “It’s as bad as that?” “It may be. You’ve never seen a mob out of temper.” . . . “If you’re right, I may see one to-day. I’m not going to let you go alone, Raney.” “It’s . . . good of you; but I think you’re a fool.” “Well, that’s as may be,” I answered. “Come on.” 4 As we hurried to the station, I told O’Rane that the approaches to Westminster had been barricaded earlier in the day and suggested that we should make for The Sanctuary by way of Waterloo and Lambeth. He nodded without speaking; and, after that, I left him undisturbed. I am not, I never have been, anything that could be called “a man of action”; I did not know whether we were hastening into the vortex of a revolution; and, if I had known, I should have had no idea what to do. “I’m simply waiting for your orders,” I reminded him, as we struggled out of the lift. “And I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s happening. How’s the fog?” “I really believe it’s thicker than ever.” “Good. Take my arm and come for all you’re worth. There’s no difference to me between night and day or fog and sunshine; but there’s all the difference in the world to these other fellows. I figure out that Griffiths’ gang ought to be arriving just about now, if they’ve come on foot. And if they’ve come at all. The police ought to be there before them, with luck. We’ve no idea of numbers on either side; but one policeman, attacking or defending, is a match for quite a few people who haven’t made up their minds how far they want to go. And it’s a trained against an untrained force. On the other hand, the police can’t go to extremes until they’re driven.” “And in pitch darkness,” I added, “numbers and training and the majesty of the law don’t count for much.” “I’m banking on that. This may be a one-man show. Me. The fog’s still holding everywhere? Good again. We’re all blind for this evening, but I’ve had more than seven years’ start of the others. I haven’t bumped you once so far? I can _feel_ when people are near. And I’m coming to know London like my own bedroom. There’s a crossing here, with rather a high kerb. Left incline to the refuge! There’s a lorry feeling his way along . . . and getting tied up with a south-bound tram. We can go on now. People aren’t frightened of a fog nearly as much as I should have expected. When I remember the agony of fear I went through when I was blinded . . . The helplessness . . . Here’s Westminster Bridge, but I don’t think it’s the least use trying that.” We hurried along the south bank of the river and only crossed when we were safely in the rear of all possible pickets.