but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very
modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some
rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads.
Above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words,
"James Oliver, News Agent."

The shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. After two
customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would
have been almost impossible to find room for a third. Along the end ran a
little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to
the living-room lying behind the shop. This evening the flap was down--a
certain sign that James Oliver, the news agent, had some guest within,
for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size
of the counter. The room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time
of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening
to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the
great city. But inside James Oliver's house the gas was already lighted
in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air,
though both door and window were wide open. For there was a window,
though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide,
which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the
very core of the maze of streets. As the houses were four stories high,
it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to
Oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilight
there. This room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might
have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses
borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the
buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former
times. It was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its
arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something