He comes to the dark door on the second floor.

He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.
The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if he had not.

It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt.

In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low.

In the corner by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness marked with a rain of ink.