And then, as another bevy of foot-passengers came hurrying along the sidewalk, Everage left the crone and went on his way. At a few minutes past eight, Clarence Everage found himself prowling down Blackfriars’ Road in search of a street that I have called Black street; but which, in fact, is very unfavorably known to the police under another name. He found it at length; and looking down its cavernous mouth, he thought of Doré’s picture of the entrance to the infernal regions. He shuddered as he turned into Black street, and followed its windings down into a labyrinth of dark and lurid lanes and alleys, from which sunlight and fresh air must have been almost totally excluded, even at noonday. Here every sense and sentiment was shocked and revolted. The streets were narrow and murky, muddy and filthy. The houses were old and shattered, and bent forward towards each other till the eaves of the roofs almost met overhead, shutting out much of the light and the air that might have visited the accursed place. The sides of the houses were disfigured by broken and stained window sashes filled up with old rags and hats, and by foul and dilapidated doorways, occupied, for the most part, by rum-stupefied men and women, and by neglected and drowsy children. Those groups were generally in semi-obscurity but here and there a street lamp from without, or a dim candle from within, lighted up their misery. “Heavens and earth!” thought Everage, holding his handkerchief to his mouth and nose as he threaded his way through the mazes of this Gehenna in search of Blood Alley and Burke Lane, “these must be the waste pipes of all London’s crime, disease and miseries; and yes, by my life, this is the sink!” he added, stopping in the very center of the labyrinth before Number Nine. The house was taller, older, dirtier, and more dilapidated than any he had yet seen. It leaned forward as if ambitious of meeting and saluting its leaning opposite neighbor, and it looked as if it were in danger of toppling down in the attempt. Here also the doorway was foul and broken, and crowded with drunken and dirty men and women. Everage inquired of this group if this was Number Nine, and if Mother Rooter lived here. They stared at him for a minute without replying, and then all burst out laughing, while one woman called to some one within the passage: “Hallo, Meg, come here! Here’s a gentleman a-wanting of Mistress Rooter. He have come with the queen’s compliments to her.” A brown-skinned, black-haired, bare-legged gipsy of about fourteen years old came out of the obscurity, and accosted Everage. “Be thou the gentleman as grannam was a-looking for?” “If your grandam is Mrs. Rooter,—yes,” answered Everage scrutinizing the girl, and recognizing her from the description given by the crone.