It is strange what distinctive features different parts of London have.
There is a mixed population in every district, more or less, and there are unfortunately dishonest people in every quarter of this great metropolis; but the unrighteous congregate thickly in many districts which appear to be the homes of the lawless.
At one time Westminster had an unenviable reputation, at another time Whitefriars, which was known by the name of Alsatia. St. Giles’s, and the Dials, and many other parts of London have still an unwholesome odour.
An interesting book might be written by detectives, who are for ever engaged in searching for thieves in their well-known resorts.
It was Saturday night when the boy and his mistress arrived at Whitechapel, and the street they were in, which was as broad as Piccadilly, presented an extraordinary appearance.
Butchers’ stalls extended down to a considerable distance; the pavements were lined with retailers of fried fish and potatoes, of fruit and vegetables, and a thousand miscellaneous wares, which were displayed to view by means of stout brown paper candles, which, prepared in a peculiar manner, afforded an excellent light.
In some cases the vendors of wares made use of naphtha lamps in lieu of the candles.
Alf Purvis was watching this scene from the window of the cab with great delight, for he was familiar with the neighbourhood, which reminded him of the poor bird-catcher, who had brought him up to London.
“You know this part of London—don’t you?” enquired Laura Stanbridge.
“Yes, marm, very well. Whitechapel was the first place I came to after leaving the farmer.”