Warburton often returned from Whitechapel to Chelsea on foot, enjoying the long walk after his day in the office.

This evening, a heavily clouded sky and sobbing wind told that rain was not far off; nevertheless, wishing to think hard, which he could never do so well as when walking at a brisk pace, he set off in the familiar direction--a straight cut across South London.
In Lower Kennington Lane he stopped, as his habit was, at a little stationer's shop, over which was the name Potts.

During his last year in the West Indies, he had befriended an English lad whose health was suffering from the climate, and eventually had paid his passage to the United States, whither the young adventurer wished to go in pursuit of his fortune.

Not long after he received a letter of thanks from the lad's father, and, on coming to London, he sought out Mr.Potts, whose gratitude and its quaint expression had pleased him.

The acquaintance continued; whenever Warburton passed the shop he stepped in and made purchases--generally of things he did not in the least want.