The daylight was fading.  The stranger, finding it impossible to read
the name of the street upon the corner house, turned back. 

"Why, 'tis a young man," the constable told himself; "a mere boy." 

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me
my way to Bloomsbury Square." 

"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round
the corner is.  What number might you be wanting?" 

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned
overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs.
Pennycherry.  Number Forty-eight." 

"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house.
Been recommended there?" 

"By--by a friend," replied the stranger.  "Thank you very much."