These, with the
round steel spectacles which he wore--the only distinctive
feature of his countenance--gave him an indescribably droll
appearance.
"A fox!" I thought.
Then I looked at him more closely.
"No," said I, "an owl, an owl!"
The stranger stepped out into the road and evidently awaited my
approach. My first vivid impression of his face--I remember it
afterward shining with a strange inward illumination--was not
favourable. It was a deep-lined, scarred, worn-looking face,
insignificant if not indeed ugly in its features, and yet, even
at the first glance, revealing something
inexplainable--incalculable--
"Good day, friend," I said heartily.
Without replying to my greeting, he asked:
"Is this the road to Kilburn?"--with a faint flavour of
foreignness in his words.
"I think it is," I replied, and I noticed as he lifted his hand
to thank me that one finger was missing and that the hand itself
was cruelly twisted and scarred.
The stranger instantly set off up the Road without giving me much
more attention than he would have given any other signpost. I
stood a moment looking after him--the wings of his overcoat
beating about his legs and the small furry ears on his cap
wagging gently.
"There," said I aloud, "is a man who is actually going
somewhere.
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