THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNIQUE DICKENSIANS
by August Derleth
“This Christmas season,” said Solar Pons from his place at the windows of our quarters at 7B, Praed Street, “holds the promise of being a merry one, after the quiet week just past. Flakes of snow are dancing in the air, and what I see below enchants me. Just step over here, Parker, and have a look.”
I turned down the book I was reading and went over to stand beside him.
Outside, the snowflakes were large and soft, shrouding the streetlight, which had come on early in the winter dusk, and enclosing, like a vision from the past, the scene at the curb—a hansom cab, no less, drawn by a horse that looked almost as ancient as the vehicle, for it stood with a dejected air while its master got out of the cab, leaning on his stick.
“It has been years since I have seen a hansom cab,” I said. “Ten, at least—if not more. And that must surely be its owner.”
The man getting out of the cab could be seen but dimly, but he wore a coat of ankle length, fitting his thin frame almost like an outer skin, and an old beaver hat that added its height to his, and when he turned to look up at the number above our outer entrance, I saw that he wore a grizzled beard and square spectacles.
“Could he have the wrong address?” I wondered.
“I fervently hope not,” said Pons. “The wrong century, perhaps, but not, I pray, the wrong address.”
“No, he is coming in.”
“Capital, capital!” cried Pons, rubbing his hands together and turning from the window to look expectantly toward the door.
. . .
