neighbourhood to the north of Oxford Street.
As he walked he speculated on the probable fate of Dyson, relying on
literature, unbefriended by a thoughtful relative, and could not help
concluding that so much subtlety united to a too vivid imagination would
in all likelihood have been rewarded with a pair of sandwich-boards or a
super's banner. Absorbed in this train of thought, and admiring the
perverse dexterity which could transmute the face of a sickly woman and
a case of brain disease into the crude elements of romance, Salisbury
strayed on through the dimly-lighted streets, not noticing the gusty
wind which drove sharply round corners and whirled the stray rubbish of
the pavement into the air in eddies, while black clouds gathered over
the sickly yellow moon. Even a stray drop or two of rain blown into his
face did not rouse him from his meditations, and it was only when with
a sudden rush the storm tore down upon the street that he began to
consider the expediency of finding some shelter. The rain, driven by the
wind, pelted down with the violence of a thunderstorm, dashing up from
the stones and hissing through the air, and soon a perfect torrent of
water coursed along the kennels and accumulated in pools over the
choked-up drains. The few stray passengers who had been loafing rather
than walking about the street had scuttered away, like frightened
rabbits, to some invisible places of refuge, and though Salisbury
whistled loud and long for a hansom, no hansom appeared. He looked about
him, as if to discover how far he might be from the haven of Oxford
Street, but strolling carelessly along, he had turned out of his way,
and found himself in an unknown region, and one to all appearance devoid
even of a public-house where shelter could be bought for the modest sum
of twopence. The street lamps were few and at long intervals, and burned
behind grimy glasses with the sickly light of oil, and by this wavering
glimmer Salisbury could make out the shadowy and vast old houses of
which the street was composed. As he passed along, hurrying, and
shrinking from the full sweep of the rain, he noticed the innumerable
bell-handles, with names that seemed about to vanish of old age graven
on brass plates beneath them, and here and there a richly carved
penthouse overhung the door, blackening with the grime of fifty years.
The storm seemed to grow more and more furious; he was wet through, and
a new hat had become a ruin, and still