The Warlocks had lived during the last ten years in an upper part above a curiosity shop four doors from the Garrick Club in Garrick Street.

There was a house-door that abutted on to the shop-door and, passing through it, you stumbled along a little dark passage like a rabbit warren, up some crooked stairs, and found yourself in the Warlock country without ever troubling Mr.Spencer, the stout, hearty, but inartistic owner of the curiosity shop.
On the present occasion, after pulling the bell, Martin stared down the street as though somewhere in the dim golden light of its farthest recesses he would find an answer to a question that he was asking.

The broad sturdy strength of his body, the easy good-temper of his expression spoke of a life lived physically rather than mentally.

And yet this was only half true.

Martin Warlock should at this time have been a quite normal young man with normal desires, normal passions, normal instincts.