The streets were still. No lights burned anywhere so far
as eye could see. But now and then, in the stillness through which the
river flowed on, murmuring and rhythmic, there rose the distant sounds of
disorderly voices. Ingolby was in a state which was neither sleep nor
waking, which was in part delirium, in part oblivion to all things in the
world save one--an obsession so complete, that he moved automatically
through the street in which he lived towards that which led to the
bridge.
His terrier, as though realizing exactly what he wished, seemed to guide
him by rubbing against his legs, and even pressing hard against them when
he was in any danger of losing the middle of the road, or swerving
towards a ditch or some obstruction. Only once did they pass any human
being, and that was when they came upon a camp of road-builders, where a
red light burned, and two men slept in the open by a dying fire. One of
them raised his head when Ingolby passed, but being more than half-
asleep, and seeing only a man and a dog, thought nothing of it, and
dropped back again upon his rough pillow. He was a stranger to Lebanon,
and there was little chance of his recognizing Ingolby in the semi-
darkness.
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