The next day, in the afternoon, in the great grey suburb, he knew his long walk had tired him.

In the dreadful cemetery alone he had been on his feet an hour.

Instinctively, coming back, they had taken him a devious course, and it was a desert in which no circling cabman hovered over possible prey.

He paused on a corner and measured the dreariness; then he made out through the gathered dusk that he was in one of those tracts of London which are less gloomy by night than by day, because, in the former case of the civil gift of light.

By day there was nothing, but by night there were lamps, and George Stransom was in a mood that made lamps good in themselves.