Bellefontaine's Return
Night had fallen hours ago in the London borough of Southwark. The intersection of Borough avenue and Newcomen street was crowded with carriages flowing north and south, east and west; drovers pushed their teams to pull wagons often overloaded at risky speeds. The intersection was also a dangerous but necessary crossing point for pedestrians out on nocturnal errands: common menials performing heavy labors, ladies maids procuring whatever their wealthy patrons might need, poorly paid clerks rushing to get home before returning to the counting house by dawn, and everywhere the unwholesome business of crime went on in the shadows.
No one on the street below or those looking through grimy widows in nearby buildings discerned the old man. There was little reason that they should distinguish him as he was primarily dressed in somber shades of black. Doubtless someone did see him, but failed to recognize what their eyes observed, in part this was due to the utter darkness of the stormy night and to the uncanny stillness of the old man. Only during flashes of lightening was it even possible to see him and what would such a geriatric be doing perched five stories from the earth upon the eves of the deceepit Georgian rooming house on such a cold rainy night?
For his part, the old man stared down into the street intently, he did not seem to mind the freezing rain and chill gusts of wind that assailed him upon his self apointed roost. His patience was great for he rarely moved more than the angle of his head as he searched the muddy streets
