They dined together, and parted at the yet unfinished and undeveloped railway station: Mr.Crisparkle to get home; Neville to walk the streets, cross the bridges, make a wide round of the city in the friendly darkness, and tire himself out.
It was midnight when he returned from his solitary expedition and climbed his staircase.

The night was hot, and the windows of the staircase were all wide open.

Coming to the top, it gave him a passing chill of surprise (there being no rooms but his up there) to find a stranger sitting on the window-sill, more after the manner of a venturesome glazier than an amateur ordinarily careful of his neck; in fact, so much more outside the window than inside, as to suggest the thought that he must have come up by the water-spout instead of the stairs.
The stranger said nothing until Neville put his key in his door; then, seeming to make sure of his identity from the action, he spoke: 'I beg your pardon,' he said, coming from the window with a frank and smiling air, and a prepossessing address; 'the beans.' Neville was quite at a loss.
'Runners,' said the visitor.

'Scarlet.

Next door at the back.' 'O,' returned Neville.