On a chill day in late October, Franklin Winslow Kane walked slowly down a narrow street near Eaton Square examining the numbers on the doors as he passed.

He held his umbrella open over his shoulder, for propitiation rather than for shelter, since the white fog had not yet formed into a drizzle.

His trousers were turned up, and his feet, wisely, for the streets were wet and slimy, encased in neat galoshes.

After a little puzzling at the end of the street, where the numbers became confusing, he found the house he sought on the other side--a narrow house, painted grey, a shining knocker upon its bright green door, and rows of evenly clipped box in each window.

Franklin picked his way over the road and rang the bell.