The rest is shadowy and monstrous. There was no one in the soaking street, and in all the world there was no one I dared tell. I walked aimlessly south past Wood Street Police Station and the south towards The Thames, and then veered west to The Millennium Bridge where the Tate Modern seemed to guard me as modern material things guard the world from ancient and unwholesome wonder. Then gray dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic Ludgate Hill and its venerable steeples, and beckoning me to the place where my terrible investigations were still unfinished. And in the end I went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered that awful door on Golden Lane to which I now had the keys, the entrance to Taylor Wimpey's The Denizen.