"I think I'll go out and have a look at it," said Edwin.
"Yes, sir."
"By the way," Edwin added, "I suppose you haven't got a map of
Brighton?"
"Certainly, sir," said the porter, and with a rebirth of passion began
to search among the pile of time-tables and other documents on a table
behind him.
Edwin wished he had not asked for the map. He had not meant to ask for
it. The words had said themselves. He gazed unseeing at the map for a
few instants.
"What particular street did you want, sir?" the porter murmured.
In deciding how to answer, it seemed to Edwin that he was deciding the
hazard of his life.
"Preston Street."
"Oh! Preston Street!" the porter repeated in a relieved tone, as if
assuring Edwin that there was nothing very esoteric about Preston
Street. "It's just beyond the Metropole. You know Regency Square.
Well, it's the next street after that. There's a club at the corner."
In the afternoon, then, Edwin must have walked across the end of Preston
Street twice. This thought made him tremble as at the perception of a
danger past but unperceived at the moment.
The porter gave his whole soul to the putting of Edwin's overcoat on
Edwin's back; he offered the hat with an obeisance, and having ushered
Edwin into the night so that the illustrious guest might view the storm,
he turned with a sudden new mysterious supply of zeal to other guests
who were now emerging from the dining-room.
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