It is strange that we should have gone to this one
opera on this one evening. I recall our coming out of the theatre;
our minds thrilling to the music and the subtle weirdness of the
theme.
A fog had fallen--one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that
sometimes come upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the
crowd disappeared like shadows. The lights upon the streets
blurred yellow. At the cold sheer contact we hesitated upon the
pavement.
I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no
such protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring
from the north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and
dug his hands into his pockets.
"Brr," he muttered; "brr, some coffee or some wine. Something."
The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the
lights had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we
started across the street.
"Brr is right," I answered, "and some wine. Notice the shadows,
like ghosts."
We were half across the street before he answered; then he
stopped.
"Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?" I noted a strange inflection
in his voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His
stop was sudden and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost
caught us and we were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked
out of the way and I side-stepped in another direction.
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