Talk continued for some half-hour. When Waymark rose at length, he
expressed his gratitude for the assistance promised.

"Well, well," said the other, "wait till we see how things work. I
shouldn't wonder if you throw it up after a week or two. However, be
here on Tuesday at ten. And prompt, mind: I don't wait for any man."

Waymark was punctual enough on the following Tuesday, and the two
drove in a hansom eastward. It was rather a foggy morning, and
things looked their worst. After alighting they had a short walk.
Mr. Woodstock stopped at the end of an alley.

"You see," he said, "that's Litany Lane. There are sixteen houses in
it, and they're all mine. Half way down, on the left, runs off Elm
Court, where there are fourteen houses, and those are all mine,
too."

Waymark looked. Litany Lane was a narrow passage, with houses only
on one side; opposite to them ran a long high wall, apparently the
limit of some manufactory. Two posts set up at the entrance to the
Lane showed that it was no thoroughfare for vehicles. The houses
were of three storeys. There were two or three dirty little shops,
but the rest were ordinary lodging-houses, the front-doors standing
wide open as a matter of course, exhibiting a dusky passage, filthy
stairs, with generally a glimpse right through into the yard in the
rear. In Elm Court the houses were smaller, and had their fronts
whitewashed. Under the archway which led into the Court were
fastened up several written notices of rooms to be let at this or
that number. The paving was in evil repair, forming here and there