The barber had disappeared, towards the Embankment.

For the rest, there was nothing unusual about the evening. The homeward rush hour was over, the queues outside the Corner House were diminishing, the Strand itself was not really crowded. Nelson stared blindly and blandly over London.

And Jim had acquired a shadow.

He could turn left, towards Trafalgar Square, where a few people were still feeding the pigeons, where the fountains played, and sightseers ambled, but that was too aimless. He could turn right along the Strand, but there were only the shops. He could go and have a meal in one of the restaurants, but was in no mood to eat on his own. It would be much better to get home to his books and the radio; his landlady would get a meal for him very quickly, and once in his own room he could probably put the depression out of his mind. His lodgings were in Chelsea, not far from Sloane Square; he could walk or go by bus. In the mood of the evening, he could not really make up his mind what to do.

A Number 11 bus came along.

He got on.

Two girls, an elderly couple, a coloured man and a tall, massive man in brown also got on. Jim went upstairs; the man in brown went inside, and sat near the door.

The journey to Sloane Square allowed time for smoking a cigarette and a half. Jim stubbed out the half as he got up, clambered down the stairs, and stepped off; just ahead of him was the tall man in the brown suit, who had also jumped up in a hurry, as if he had only just realised that this was his stopping place.

It was ten minutes’ walk to Middleton Street, which was off the main road, and Jim stepped out more briskly. He noticed the massive man in brown some way ahead of him, then saw the man slow down to look into a shop window, and let him pass. It did not occur to him that the man was virtually his shadow. Even when the other turned down Middleton Street in his wake, Jim took no notice.