The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy
brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of
reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place,
with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained
closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar.

The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls;
nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow
paper envelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black
figures; a few numbers of ancient French comic publications hung across a
string as if to dry; a dingy blue china bowl, a casket of black wood,
bottles of marking ink, and rubber stamps; a few books, with titles
hinting at impropriety; a few apparently old copies of obscure
newspapers, badly printed, with titles like _The Torch, The Gong_--rousing
titles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low,
either for economy's sake or for the sake of the customers.

These customers were either very young men, who hung about the window for
a time before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but
looking generally as if they were not in funds. Some of that last kind
had the collars of their overcoats turned right up to their moustaches,
and traces of mud on the bottom of their nether garments, which had the
appearance of being much worn and not very valuable. And the legs inside
them did not, as a general rule, seem of much account either. With their
hands plunged deep in the side pockets of their coats, they dodged in
sideways, one shoulder first, as if afraid to start the bell going.

The bell, hung on the door by means of a curved ribbon of steel, was
difficult to circumvent. It was hopelessly cracked; but of an evening,
at the slightest provocation, it clattered behind the customer with