The scene of the tragedy, that shop in the Strand, was well-lit and well-appointed.

But he, Savage Keith Rickman, had much preferred the dark little second-hand shop in the City where he had laboured as a boy.

There was something soothing in its very obscurity and retirement.

He could sit there for an hour at a time, peacefully reading his Homer.

In that agreeable dusty twilight, outward forms were dimmed with familiarity and dirt.