Above the shapeless houses night was signalling a murky approach; the sky--if sky it could be called--gave threatening of sleet, perchance of snow.

And on every side was the rumble of traffic, the voiceful evidence of toil and of poverty; hawkers were crying their goods; the inevitable organ was clanging before a public-house hard by; the crumpet-man was hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his bell and hoarse rhythmic wail.
The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward along the narrow street which is called St.James's Walk.

In a few minutes he had reached the end of it, and found himself facing a high grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was an arched gateway closed with black doors.

He looked at the gateway, then fixed his gaze on something that stood just above--something which the dusk half concealed, and by so doing made more impressive.

It was the sculptured counterfeit of a human face, that of a man distraught with agony.