hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his bell and hoarse
rhythmic wail.

The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a
gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron
railings seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he
went forward along the narrow street which is called St. James's
Walk. In a few minutes he had reached the end of it, and found
himself facing a high grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was
an arched gateway closed with black doors. He looked at the gateway,
then fixed his gaze on something that stood just above--something
which the dusk half concealed, and by so doing made more impressive.
It was the sculptured counterfeit of a human face, that of a man
distraught with agony. The eyes stared wildly from their sockets,
the hair struggled in maniac disorder, the forehead was wrung with
torture, the cheeks sunken, the throat fearsomely wasted, and from
the wide lips there seemed to be issuing a horrible cry. Above this
hideous effigy was carved the legend: 'MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF
DETENTION.'

Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and
pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes
had a stern resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then
suddenly stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.

'I ask your pardon,' he said, addressing her with the courtesy which
owes nothing to refined intercourse, 'but do you by chance know
anyone of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?'

The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the