Having left my house after breaking our fast, we walked down many streets, leading us to one in particular. It seems now as though our destination could have been no different, but I swear that our walk was as aimless as ever. It was a good street, kept clean and smart by its inhabitants; a credit to them. However, as we came to an entrance, the building opposite caught my cousin's eye. It was two stories high with no windows showing; nothing but a door on the lower story and a mute wall of discoloured render above. It contrasted with the street and bore the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and stained and a tramp slouched in the recess striking matches on the panels. Knife marks were gouged from the panelling where school-children had gathered, unchided, for years, trying their blades on the wood with no-one coming to move them on or repair the damage. Mister Enfield raised his stick and indicated the door.

'Did you ever remark that door?' he asked. I allowed that I had and he continued, 'It is connected in my mind with a very odd story.'

I had noticed the door before, and in fact knew where it led, but I said nothing of that to Mister Enfield. Instead I bid him tell me his tale.