As he sat there listening there seemed to come up to him, straight out of the river, strange impersonal noises that had to do with no definite sounds. He was reminded of a story that he had once read, a story concerning a nice young man who caught the disease known as the Horror of London. Peter thought that in the air, coming from nowhere, intangible, floating between the river and the sky something stirred.... Big Ben struck quarter to four and he turned once more into the Strand. The editor of _The Saturday Illustrated_ was a very different person from Mr. Boset. At a desk piled with papers, stern, gaunt and sharp-chinned, his words rattled out of his mouth like peas onto a plate. But Peter saw that he had humorous twinkling eyes. “Well, what can you do?” “I've never tried anything--but I feel that I should learn--” “Learn! Do you suppose this office is a nursery shop for teaching sucklings how to draw their milk? Are you ready for anything?” “Anything--” “Yes--they all say that. Journalism isn't any fun, you know.” “I'm not looking for fun.” “Well, it's the damnedest trade out. Anything's better. But you want to write?” “I must.” “Yes--exactly. Well, I like the look of you. More blood and bones than most of the rotten puppies that come into this office. I've no job for you at the moment though. Go back to your digs and write something--anything you like--and send it along--leave me your address. Oh, ho! Bucket Lane--hard up?” “I'm all right, thank you.” “All right, I wasn't offering you charity--no need to put your pride up. I shan't forget you ... but send me something.” The clouds had now enveloped the sun. As Peter, a little encouraged by this last experience but tired with a dull, listless fatigue, crept into the dark channels of Bucket Lane, the rain began to fall with heavy solemn drops. CHAPTER VII DEVIL'S MARCH I There could be nothing odder than the picture that Brockett's and Bennett Square presented from the vantage ground of Bucket Lane. How peaceful and happy those evenings (once considered a little dreary perhaps and monotonous) now seemed! Those mornings in the dusty bookshop, Mr. Zanti, Herr Gottfried, Mrs. Brockett, then Brockett's with its strange kind-hearted company--the dining-room, the marble pillars, the green curtains--Norah Monogue! Not only did it seem another lifetime when he had been there but also inevitably, one was threatened with never getting back. Bucket Lane was another world--from its grimy windows one looked upon every tragedy that life had to offer. Into its back courts were born muddled indecent little lives, there blindly to wallow until the earth called them back to itself again.