TheLockArthurClennamstoodinthestreet，waitingtoasksomepasser-bywhatplacethatwas。Hesufferedafewpeopletopasshiminwhosefacetherewasnoencouragementtomaketheinquiry，andstillstoodpausinginthestreet，whenanoldmancameupandturnedintothecourtyard。
Hestoopedagooddeal，andploddedalonginaslowpre-occupiedmanner，whichmadethebustlingLondonthoroughfaresnoverysaferesortforhim。Hewasdirtilyandmeanlydressed，inathreadbarecoat，onceblue，reachingtohisanklesandbuttonedtohischin，whereitvanishedinthepaleghostofavelvetcollar。Apieceofredclothwithwhichthatphantomhadbeenstiffenedinitslifetimewasnowlaidbare，andpokeditselfup，atthebackoftheoldman’sneck，intoaconfusionofgreyhairandrustystockandbucklewhichaltogethernearlypokedhishatoff。Agreasyhatitwas，andanapless；impendingoverhiseyes，crackedandcrumpledatthebrim，andwithawispofpocket-handkerchiefdanglingoutbelowit。Histrousersweresolongandloose，andhisshoessoclumsyandlarge，thatheshuffledlikeanelephant；thoughhowmuchofthiswasgait，andhowmuchtrailingclothandleather，noonecouldhavetold。Underonearmhecarriedalimpandworn-outcase，containingsomewindinstrument；inthesamehandhehadapennyworthofsnuffinalittlepacketofwhitey-brownpaper，fromwhichheslowlycomfortedhispoorblueoldnosewithalengthened-
outpinch，asArthurClennamlookedathim。
Tothisoldmancrossingthecourt-yard，hepreferredhisinquiry，touchinghimontheshoulder。Theoldmanstoppedandlookedround，withtheexpressioninhisweakgreyeyesofonewhosethoughtshadbeenfaroff，andwhowasalittledullofhearingalso。
’Pray，sir，’saidArthur，repeatinghisquestion，’whatisthisplace？’