o eight, with the precious letter in the pocket of my
ragged jacket, I left Albemarle Street and sauntered along Piccadilly
towards the Circus. The rain had ceased, but it was wet underfoot, and
the motor buses plashed foot passengers from head to foot with liquid
mud. In my walk I passed, outside the Piccadilly Hotel, two men I knew.
One of them looked me straight in the face but failed to recognise me.

Piccadilly Circus, the centre of the night-life of London, is unique,
with its jostling crowds on pleasure bent, its congestion of traffic, its
myriad lights, its flashing, illuminated signs, and the bright facade of
the Criterion on the one side and the Pavilion on the other. Surely one
sees the lure of London there more than at any other spot in the whole of
our great metropolis.

Passing the Criterion and turning into the Haymarket, I halted for a
moment on the kerb, and for the first time in my life, perhaps, gazed
philosophically upon the frantic, hurrying panorama of human life passing
before my eyes.

From where I stood I could see into the well-lit station entrance with
the row to the telephone boxes, at the end of which sat the smart young
operator, who was getting numbers and collecting fees. All the boxes
were engaged, and several persons were waiting, but in vain my eyes
searched for a lady in black wearing mimosa.

The winter wind was bitterly cold, and as I was without an overcoat it
cut through my thin, shabby clothes, causing me to shiver. Nevertheless,
I kept my watchful vigil. By a neighbouring clock I could see that it was
already five minutes past the hour of the appointment. Still, I waited in
eager expectation of her coming.

The only other person who seemed to loiter there was a thin, shivering
Oriental, who bore some rugs upon his shoulder--a hawker of shawls.

Past me there went men and women of every grade and every station. Boys
were crying "Extrur spe-shull," and evil-looking loafers, those foreign
scoundrels who infest the West End, lurked about, sometimes casting a
suspicious glance at me, with the thought, perhaps, that I might be a
detective.

Ah! the phantasmagora of life outside the Piccadilly Tube at eight
o'clock in the evening is indeed a strangely complex one. The world of
London has then ceased to work and has given itself over to pleasure,
and, alas! in so many cases, to evil.

In patience I waited. The moments seemed hours, for in my suspense I was
dubious whether, afte