It was near upon eight o’clock when I passed through the archway into Nevill’s Court.  The warm afternoon light had died away, for the summer was running out apace.  The last red glow of the setting sun had faded from the ancient roofs and chimney-stacks, and down in the narrow court the shades of evening had begun to gather in nooks and corners.  I was due at eight, and, as it still wanted some minutes to the hour, I sauntered slowly down the court, looking reflectively on the familiar scene and the well-known friendly faces.

The day’s work was drawing to a close.  The little shops were putting up their shutters; lights were beginning to twinkle in parlour windows; a solemn hymn arose in the old Moravian chapel, and its echoes stole out through the dark entry that opens into the court under the archway.

Here was Mr. Finneymore (a man of versatile gifts, with a leaning towards paint and varnish) sitting, white-aproned and shirt-sleeved, on a chair in his garden, smoking his pipe with a complacent eye on his dahlias.  There at an open window a young man, with a brush in his hand and another behind his ear, stood up and stretched himself while an older lady deftly rolled up a large map.  The barber was turning out the gas in his little saloon; the greengrocer was emerging with a cigarette in his mouth and an aster in his button-hole, and a group of children were escorting the lamplighter on his rounds.

All these good, homely folk were Nevill’s Courtiers of the genuine breed; born in the court, as had been their fathers before them for generations.  And of such to a great extent was the population of the place.  Miss Oman herself claimed aboriginal descent and so did the sweet-faced Moravian lady next door—­a connection of the famous La Trobes of the old Conventicle, whose history went back to the Gordon Riots; and as to the gentleman who lived in the ancient timber-and-plaster house at the bottom of the court, it was reported that his ancestors had dwelt in that very house since the days of James the First.

On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court:  on the strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.

My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house talking to Miss Oman.  She was evidently waiting for me, for she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her hand.

“You are punctual,” said she.  “St. Dunstan’s clock is striking now.”

“Yes,” I answered.  “But where is your father?”

“He has gone to bed, poor old dear.  He didn’t feel well enough to come, and I did not urge him.  He is really very ill.  This dreadful suspense will kill him if it goes on much longer.”