The Man Who Was Thursday HTML version
5. The Feast Of Fear
AT first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but
before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the
parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river. As a figure he was
quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of
fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step
by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to
notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and
intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of
the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere
oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven--clear-cut,
ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and
still the figure did not stir.
At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to
meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was
not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something
to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have
been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-
work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and
again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly
across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his
election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and
his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and
down in the left.
There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people
have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But
in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the
loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it.
There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And
there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong.
The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into
its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a
man speaking to an old colleague.
"If we walk up towards Leicester Square," he said, "we shall just be in time for
breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any
"No," said Syme.