"
"Perhaps," said Thorndyke; and we both subsided into gloomy and silent
reflection.
The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London can be.
Occasional hoots from far-away tugs and steamers told of the busy life
down below in the crowded Pool. A faint hum of traffic was borne in from
the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices of newspaper
boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction of Carmelite Street.
They were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the excited
yells, toned down as they were by distance, nevertheless stirred the
very marrow in my bones, so dreadfully suggestive were they of those
possibilities of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted. They seemed
like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes.
Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke's
mind, for he remarked presently: "The newsvendor is abroad to-night like
a bird of ill-omen. Something unusual has happened: some public or
private calamity, most likely, and these yelling ghouls are out to feast
on the remains.
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