The Broad Highway

"Good evening, sir!" he said, in a strange, hurried sort of way,

"the moon, you will perceive, is very nearly at the full to-night."

And his voice, immediately, struck me as being at odds with his

clothes.

"Why do you stand and peer at me?" said I sharply.

"Peer at you, sir?"

"Yes, from behind the tree, yonder." As I spoke, he craned his

head towards me, and I saw his pale lips twitch suddenly. "And

why have you dogged me; why have you followed me all the way from

Tonbridge?"

"Why, sir, surely there is nothing so strange in that. I am a

shadow."

"What do you mean by 'a shadow'?"

"Sir, I am a shadow cast by neither sun, nor moon, nor star, that

moves on unceasingly in dark as in light. Sir, it is my fate

(in common with my kind), to be ever upon the move--a stranger

everywhere without friends or kindred. I have been, during the

past year, all over England, east, and west, and north, and

south; within the past week, for instance, I have travelled from

London to Epsom, from Epsom to Brighton, from Brighton back again

to London, and from London here. And I peer at you, sir, because

I wished to make certain what manner of man you were before I

spoke, and though the moon is bright, yet your hat-brim left your

face in shade."

"Well, are you satisfied?"

"So much so, sir, so very much so, that I should like to talk

with you, to--to ask you a question," he answered, passing his

hand--a thin, white hand--across his brow, and up over the fur

cap that was so out of keeping with the pale face below.

"A question?"

"If you will be so obliging as to listen, sir; let us sit awhile,

for I am very weary." And with the words he sank down upon the

grass. After a momentary hesitation, I followed his example, for

my curiosity was piqued by the fellow's strange manner; yet, when

we were sitting opposite each other, I saw that his hand was

still hidden in the pocket of his coat.

"Perhaps, sir," said he, in his nervous, hurried manner, "perhaps

you would be better able to answer my question were I first to

tell you a story--an ordinary, a very commonplace one, I fear,

but with the virtue that it is short, and soon told."

"My time is entirely my own," said I, leaning with my shoulders

against the tree behind me; "proceed with your story."