His reflections served apparently to shorten the journey; and Soames found himself proceeding along Globe Road—­a dark and uninviting highway—­almost before he realized that London Bridge had been traversed.  It was now long past one o’clock; and that part of the east-end showed dreary and deserted.  Public houses had long since ejected their late guests, and even those argumentative groups, which, after closing-time, linger on the pavements, within the odor Bacchanalian, were dispersed.  The jauntiness was gone, now, from Soames’ manner, and aware of a marked internal depression, he passed furtively along the pavement with its long shadowy reaches between the islands of light formed by the street lamps.  From patch to patch he passed, and each successive lamp that looked down upon him found him more furtive, more bent in his carriage.

Not a shop nor a house exhibited any light.  Sleeping Globe Road, East, served to extinguish the last poor spark of courage within Soames’ bosom.  He came to the extreme end of the road without having perceived a beckoning hand, without having detected a sound to reveal that his advent was observed.  In the shadow of a wall he stopped, resting his grip upon the pavement and looking back upon his tracks.

No living thing moved from end to end of Globe Road.

Shivering slightly, Soames picked up the bag and began to walk back.  Less than half-way along, an icy chill entered into his veins, and his nerves quivered like piano wires, for a soft crying of his name came, eerie, through the silence, and terrified the hearer.

“Soames!...  Soames!"...

Soames stopped dead, breathing very rapidly, and looking about him right and left.  He could hear the muted pulse of sleeping London.  Then, in the dark doorway of the house before which he stood, he perceived, dimly, a motionless figure.  His first sensation was not of relief, but of fear.  The figure raised a beckoning hand.  Soames, conscious that his course was set and that he must navigate it accordingly, opened the iron gate, passed up the path and entered the house to which he thus had been summoned....

He found himself surrounded by absolute darkness, and the door was closed behind him.

“Straight ahead, Soames!” said the familiar voice of Gianapolis out of the darkness.

Soames, with a gasp of relief, staggered on.  A hand rested upon his shoulder, and he was guided into a room on the right of the passage.  Then an electric lamp was lighted, and he found himself confronting the Greek.

But Gianapolis was no longer radiant; all the innate evil of the man shone out through the smirking mask.

“Sit down, Soames!” he directed.

Soames, placing his bag upon the floor, seated himself in a cane armchair.  The room was cheaply furnished as an office, with a roll-top desk, a revolving chair, and a filing cabinet.  On a side-table stood a typewriter, and about the room were several other chairs, whilst the floor was covered with cheap linoleum.  Gianapolis sat in the revolving chair, staring at the lowered blinds of the window, and brushing up the points of his black mustache.