A CORNER OF LAMBETH A working man, one Gilbert Grail, was spending an hour of his Saturday afternoon in Westminster Abbey.

At five o'clock the sky still pulsed with heat; black shadows were sharp edged upon the yellow pavement.
Between the bridges of Westminster and Lambeth the river was a colourless gleam; but in the Sanctuary evening had fallen.

Above the cool twilight of the aisles floated a golden mist; and the echo of a footfall hushed itself among the tombs.
He was a man past youth, but of less than middle age, with meagre limbs and shoulders, a little bent.

His clothing was rough but decent; his small and white hands gave evidence of occupation which was not rudely laborious.

He had a large head, thickly covered with dark hair, which, with his moustache and beard, heightened the wanness of his complexion.
A massive forehead, deep-set eyes, thin, straight nose, large lips constantly drawn inwards, made a physiognomy impressive rather than pleasing.