Those who had come to doors or windows on the street retired from them just as Harkness had done; those out in the street went on their ways, with the exception of two men of the more demonstrative sort, who went and looked down the alley after the stranger, and called out jestingly to some one in it.
Then the old man stopped, and, with his face still upturned, as if blind to everything but pure light, took up his position on one side of the narrow street.

He had only gone some forty paces down it.

A policeman, coming up in front of the hotel, looked on, listening to the jesters.
Then he and they drew a little nearer, the children who had followed stood round, one man appeared at the other end of the alley.

On either side the houses were high and the windows few, but high up in the hotel there was a small window that lighted a linen press, and at that small window, with the door of the closet locked on the inside, Eliza stood unseen, and looked and listened.
The voice of the preacher was loud, unnatural also in its rising and falling, the voice of a deaf man who could not hear his own tones.

His words were not what any one expected.