What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it.
Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight.
In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St.Paul's.
Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square.

Every night and every morning he walked to and from the _Watchman_ office by the same route--Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street.
He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe.

And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, looking about him.

Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering.
Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo.

He moved a step or two towards him.