St. Prisca's Tower stands alone in Porter Street, hard by the Thames, on the Middlesex side, and between Blackfriars Bridge and the Tower of London. It is all that now remains, all that remained on that night, of St. Prisca's Church. City improvements had swept away the main portion of the building, and on that silent summer night, when that man descended from the leads of the tower, this square structure rose up, a mighty isolated shaft, two hundred feet above the pavement of the street and the three small alleys which skirted its other sides. In a short time after the voice ceased finally on the roof, the figure of a man--Lionel Crawford--emerged from the gloomy darkness of the tower door, and stood in the light of the lamp. Lionel Crawford was a man of sixty-five years of age, bent in the shoulders, and a little feeble in the legs. His walk was shuffling and uncertain, but still he seemed capable of great physical effort, if he chose to exert himself. His face was dark, and of a leathery colour. His eyes were dark, almost black, and protruded a little. His mouth was large, the lips full and heavy, the teeth still white and sound. The forehead was broad and high, and strongly marked with wrinkles, perpendicular and horizontal, dividing the forehead into four parts. Two smooth, wide, arch-shaped spaces stood up over the brows, and above them, slightly retreating, two smooth convex expanses. His hands were large, ill-made, knotty. In the lamp-light he took off the soft felt hat he was wearing and disclosed a head bald to the apex, but having still around its lower edges and behind a thick covering of curly black hair. He was dressed in clothes which had been those of a gentleman at one time, but were now nothing more than the meanest device for covering the body and keeping it warm. When Lionel Crawford had stood in the light of the lamp for a short time he drew himself up to his full height, inflated his lungs, and looked around defiantly. To judge by his face, defiance was an attitude familiar to his mind. But here was no one to see it, only the callous walls, the imperturbable night. From the top of the tower he had marked the way taken by the woman. It was a continuation of the narrow alley into which the door of the tower opened. It led directly to the river, and in order to reach it from where he stood it was necessary to cross Porter Street. Once more the measured tread of the policeman was heard approaching. Lionel Crawford drew himself back into the deep doorway of the tower, and waited until the footsteps had passed the end of the alley and died away in the distance. Then he issued forth, turned to his left out of the doorway, crossed Porter Street with a brisk step, and plunged into the narrow way the woman had taken. Before he had gone ten yards the place became as dark as a vault; it was impossible to see a yard ahead, and only that he knew the place well, he could not have proceeded without feeling his way. No ordinary man in an ordinary state of mind would, at such an hour, venture into that narrow, dark, forbidding way. But Lionel Crawford was an exceptional man, in an abnormal state of mind. From the time he left the top of the tower until he obliterated himself in the darkness, his mind had been in a dull lethargic state. He fully intended putting an end to his existence that night. That was his only thought. He should walk down to the end of that narrow lane. At the end of that narrow lane was a wharf, and from the edge of this wharf to the surface of the water he had only a few feet to fall. Then all would be as good as over, for he could not swim, and it was not likely--the chance was one to a thousand--there would be anyone there to attempt a rescue. Notwithstanding his familiarity with the place, he abated his pace a little and walked more with his old shuffling gait than when he had the light to guide him. All at once he stumbled and fell. "What is this!" he cried, as he tried to rise. His feet were entangled in something soft, which yielded this way and that, and for a while hindered him from rising. At last he rose, and leaning against the wall for breath, rubbed the sweat from his forehead. His faculties were numbed, and for a few moments he scarcely knew where he was or whither he had been going. The first thing he clearly recalled was that he had entered Winter Lane. Then he realised the fact that in the dark he had tripped over something now lying at his feet. "But," he thought, "what can be here? What can be lying here at such an hour? I was down here to-day and the place was clear. Now I remember I had intended going to the river. I had calculated on no one being at hand to prevent me. Fool that I was! How could I have forgotten the watchman of the wharf. I dared not throw into the river the stones I get up with so much labour, lest he might hear me and hand me over to the police." He now was standing over what had tripped him. He stooped down and felt carefully, slowly, around him. His hand touched a face--a smooth, beardless face--the hat of a woman. What was this? A woman lying prostrate here, and at such an hour. He seized the form by the shoulders, and shook it. "What are you doing here?" he said. "Wake up. What are you doing here?" There was a slight motion in the form of the woman. She made an effort to rise. He helped her. "What do you mean, woman," he said angrily, "by going to sleep in such a place at such a time, and tripping up an old man who is on his way to--his Friend?" The woman answered in a feeble voice: "I don't remember exactly how it was. I did not go to sleep. I think I must have fainted." "But this is no place for you to be, woman, at this hour of night." "I did not mean to stop here," she said. "I meant to go to--the River." "You meant to go to the River--to my friend, the River? So did I. You faint and trip me up. That may be an omen of good luck to both of us. Come, although there is neither rain nor wind I feel in better humour now. Are you hungry?" "I have no friend--no money." "Are you young?" "Twenty years of age." "Too young to think of death. Come with me. It cannot have been a mere accident that brought us two together. Come with me, my child. I am old enough to be your grandfather. Stop!" he cried, suddenly. "What is that? Did you notice anything?" "No," answered the woman feebly. "Do you know it rains?" he said. The tone of despondency at once left his voice, and was succeeded by one of exultation. "I told you," he said, "we did not meet for nothing. I have been praying and cursing for rain. I meet you, and here the rain is. Twenty," he said, "and tired of life! Nay, nay; that will not do. You have a sweetheart? I was young myself once." "Yes." "And he is false?" "No, no. He is ill and poor." "I am alone, old, childless, friendless. You have stopped me on my way to the river, and brought the rain. One day, at any hour, I may be rich. If I live to win my gold, I shall share with you and your lad. It would be a piteous thing that a sweetheart of twenty should die. Come with me; cheer up and come with me." He drew her arm through his and led her in the direction of the tower. "Sweetheart," he said, "it makes one young again to think of saving love. I cannot see your face or figure; but all are sweethearts at twenty. What is his name?" "He is French," said she. "French! What is his name?" "Dominique Lavirotte." "Dominique Lavirotte!"