He continued along the road in a roughly eastward direction, noticing that the traffic grew thicker. The park ended on his left and a fresh one appeared on his right. Boys with bundles of newspapers and placards began to run about shouting, men with long poles began to poke them into lanterns which stood on thin, tall pedestals at regular intervals along the sides of the pavement, and the air became a little cooler, the sky a little darker.
Jherek, realizing that night was falling and that he had become so entranced by the atmosphere that he was, again, in danger of being deflected from his path, decided that it was time to make for Bromley. He remembered that Snoozer Vines had told him that he would need to take a train and that the trains left from somewhere called "Victoria" or possibly "Waterloo."
He went up to a passer-by, a portly gentleman dressed rather like himself who was in the process of purchasing a newspaper from a small boy.
"Excuse me, sir," said Jherek, raising his hat. "I wonder if you would be good enough to help me."
"Certainly, sir, if I can," said the portly gentleman genially, replacing his money in his waistcoat pocket.
"I am trying to reach the town of Bromley, which is in Kent, and I wondered if you knew which train station I would need."
"Well," said the portly gentleman with a frown. "It will either be Victoria or Waterloo, I should think. Or possibly London Bridge. Possibly all three. I would suggest that you purchase a railway guide, sir. I can see from the cut of your jib that you're a stranger to our shores — and an investment, if you intend to travel about this fair island, in a railway guide will pay you handsome dividends in the long run. I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance. Good evening to you." And the portly gentleman rolled away, calling out:
"Cab! Cab!"
Jherek sighed and continued to walk up the busy street which seemed to become increasingly densely populated with every passing moment. He wished that he had mastered the logic of reading when he had had the chance. Mrs. Underwood had tried to teach him, but she had never really explained the principles to his satisfaction. With the logic fully understood, a translation pill would do the rest for him, working its peculiar restructuring effect upon his brain-cells.
He tried to stop several people, but they all seemed too busy to want to talk to him, and at last he reached an intersection crammed with traffic of every description. Bewildered he came to another stop, staring over the hansoms, four-wheelers and carts at the statue of a naked bowman with wings on his ankles, doubtless some heroic aviator who had taken part in the salvation of London during one of its periodic wars with other of the island's city-states. The noise was almost overwhelming, and now darkness added to his confusion. He thought he recognized some of the buildings and landmarks, from his last trip to the past, but he could not be sure. They were inclined to look very much alike. Across the street he saw the gold and crimson front of a house which seemed, for some reason, more as he had originally imagined 19th century houses to be. It had large windows with lace curtains from behind which poured warm gaslight. Other curtains, of red velvet held by cords of woven gold, were drawn back from the windows and from within there came a number of pleasant smells. Jherek decided that he would give up trying to stop one of the busy passers-by and ask for help, instead, at one of these houses. Nervously, he plunged into the traffic, was missed first by an omnibus, then by a hansom cab, then by a four-wheeler, was cursed at roundly by almost everyone and arrived panting and dusty on the other side of the road.
Standing outside the gold and crimson building, Jherek realized that he was not sure of how to begin making his enquiry. He saw a number of people go through the doors as he watched, and concluded that some sort of party was taking place. He went to one of the windows and peered, as best he could, through the lace curtains. Men in black suits very much like his own, but wearing large white aprons around their waists, hurried about, bearing trays of food, while at tables, some large and some small, sat groups of men and women, eating, drinking and talking. It was definitely a party. Here, surely, would be someone who could help him.
At he stared, Jherek saw that at a table in the far corner sat a group of men, dressed in slightly different style to most of the others. They were laughing, pouring foaming wine from large green bottles, having an animated conversation. With a shock, Jherek thought that one of the men, dressed in a light yellow velvet jacket, a loose scarlet cravat covering a good deal of his shirt front, bore a startling resemblance to his old friend Lord Jagged of Canaria. He seemed to be on familiar terms with the other men. At first Jherek told himself that this could only be Lord Jagger, the judge at his trial, and decided that he could see points about the handsome, lazy face which distinguished him from Jagged, but he knew that he deceived himself. Obviously coincidence could explain the resemblance, both of name and features, but here was his opportunity to decide the truth. He left the windows and pushed open the doors of the house.
Immediately a small, dark man approached him.
"Good evening, sir? You have a table?"
"Not with me," said Jherek in some astonishment.
The small man's smile was thin and Jherek knew enough to understand that it was not particularly friendly. Hastily, he said: "My friends — over there!"
"Ah!" This seemed sufficient explanation. The small man was relieved. "Your hat and coat, sir?"
Jherek realized that he was supposed to give these items of clothing to the man as some form of surety. Willingly, he dispensed with them, and made his way as quickly as possible to the table where he had seen Jagged.
But, somehow, Jagged had managed to disappear again.
A man with a coarse, good-natured face, adorned by a large black moustache, looked up at Jherek enquiringly. "How d'ye do?" he said heartily. "You'd be M. Fromental, from Paris? I'm Harris — and this is Mr. Wells, whom you wrote to me about." He indicated a narrow-faced, slight man, with a scrubby moustache and startlingly bright pale blue eyes. "Wells, this is the agent chap Pinker mentioned. He wants to handle all your work over there."
"I'm afraid…" began Jherek.
"Sit down my dear fellow and have some wine." Mr. Harris stood up, shaking his hand warmly, pressing him downwards into a chair. "How are all my good friends in Paris? Zola? I was sorry to hear about poor Goncourt. And how is Daudet, at present? Madame Rattazzi is well, I hope." He winked. "And be sure, when you return, to give my regards to my old friend the Comtesse de Loynes…"
"The man," said Jherek, "who was sitting across the table from you. Do you know him, Mr. Harris?"
"He's a contributor to the Review from time to time, like everyone else here. Name of Jackson. Does little pieces on the arts for us."
"Jackson?"
"Do you know his stuff? If you want to meet him, I'll be glad to introduce you. But I thought your interest in coming to the Cafe Royale tonight was in talking to H. G. Wells here. He's a rather larger gun, these days, eh, Wells?" Mr. Harris roared with laughter and slapped Mr. Wells on the shoulder. The quieter man smiled wanly, but he was plainly pleased by Harris's description.
"It's a pity so few of our other regular contributors are here tonight," Harris went on. "Kipling said he'd come, but as usual hasn't turned up. A bit of a dour old dog, y'know. And nothing of Richards for weeks. We thought we were to be blessed by a visitation from Mr. Pett Ridge, too, tonight. All we can offer are Gregory, here, one of our editors." A gangling young man who grinned as, unsteadily, he poured himself another glass of champagne. "And this is our drama critic, name of Shaw." A red-bearded, sardonic looking man with eyes almost as arresting as Mr. Wells's, dressed in a suit of tweeds which seemed far too heavy for the weather, acknowledged the introduction with a grave bow from where he was seated at the far end of the table looking over a bundle of printed papers and occasionally making marks on them with his pen.