We were half through breakfast when Hamerly’s card was brought in, to be followed a few moments later by the man himself. I looked with delighted interest at the involuntary start that he gave when he met Dorothy. How I wish I might rightly describe her as she stood there, lighting by her very presence the gray interior of the dining-room, shrouded as it was by the “London particular.” Everything else was gloom, save in the circle where Dorothy gave the radiance of her presence. Hamerly’s silent tribute was no more than she exacted from all who met her. Again and again I marvelled at my audacity in believing I might have this incarnation of youth, of power, and beauty for my own. Such thoughts raced through my head as I sat watching the swift interchange of question and answer between Tom, Dorothy and Hamerly. In response to their inquiries, Hamerly related the story he had told me the day before, and as he ended, asked, “What are you going to do next? How are you planning to use your man Swenton?” Dorothy answered for Tom and myself. “We are going straight to Dr. Heidenmuller’s laboratory, taking Swenton along. I want to have the whole scene before my eyes to see what can be made out of it. We should be very glad to have you come with us, Mr. Hamerly.” Tom bent towards me with a look of mock anguish on his brow. “How I had hoped for a peaceful Sunday morning,” he said, in a low aside, “and now we’ve got to plunge out into a nasty fog, and chase all over this benighted city. Never mind, I might have known. I never can have my own way.” Despite his plaint, Tom was the first one ready, as, clothed in raincoat and slouch hat, our little party gathered under the shelter of the glass awning inside the court. The massive dignity of the carriage porter, shrouded in a white glistening rubber coat, loomed bulkier than ever, as, with an elephantine grace, he whistled shrilly twice. Out of a dim background two hansoms dashed into the circle of light where the arcs of the entrance fought bravely against the encroaching fog. “I’m going with Mr. Hamerly,” said Tom. “You take Dorothy in the other hansom, Jim, and drive straight. We’ll pick up Swenton on the way. Give the address, will you, Hamerly?” “Old Jewry, third alley, this side of Gresham Street,” said Hamerly, and the cabbies nodded. Dorothy stepped lightly in before I could lend my aid. I followed, the porter closed the curtaining doors, pulled up the window, and we were off, embarked on a sea of fog. As I looked out, I thought I saw Tom speaking to our driver, but I could not be sure. “Old Jewry,” said Dorothy dreamily. “How delightfully Dickensonian. I haven’t an idea where it can be, and I don’t want to know. It’s much more fun plunging off into an unknown world of adventure in the good ship Hansom Cab.”