The memory of certain streets in London came to him--those near its own great bridges, especially the city dump at Black-friars and the begrimed buildings hugging the stone knees of London Bridge, choking up the snakelike alleys and byways leading to the Embankment.
Crossing under the Elevated, he continued along the side of the giant piers and wheeled into a dirt-choked, ill-smelling street, its distant outlet a blaze of electric lights.

It was now the dead hour of the twenty-four--the hour before the despatch of the millions of journals, damp from the presses.

He was the only human being in sight.
Suddenly, when within a hundred feet of the end of the street, a figure detached itself from a deserted doorway.

Felix caught his stick from under his armpit as the man held out a hand.
"Say, I want you to give me the price of a meal." Felix tightened his hold on the stick.

The words had conveyed a threat.
"This is no place for you to beg.