The fog was thick at the center of the bridge where the man stood leaning against the rail. Although the streets of New York were scarcely a hundred yards away, he might have been in a little world of his own. For the only light in the midst of that cloud of black night fog came from an arc light on the bridge. A taxicab, carrying a late passenger home, shot through the mist.

The stranger's face was entirely obscured by a broad−brimmed felt hat bent downward over his features; and the long, black cloak looked like part of the thickening fog. The man who had attempted suicide was too startled to speak. Fear had come upon him, and his only desire was to shrink from this grim and eerie master of the night. But he felt himself pulled across the sidewalk, and at the curb he stumbled through the open door of a large limousine, which he had not seen until that moment.

His arm was freed, and he shrank into the far corner of the car. The door closed and the car moved onward. Fear still clutched the man whose life had been saved against his will. Rescued, he sensed that the grim stranger was in the seat beside him. He expected new evidence of that weird personage’s presence. The evidence came. A voice spoke through the darkness. It was a weird, chilling voice − scarcely more than a whisper, yet clear and penetrating. "What is your name?" It was not a question. Rather, it was a command to speak