Determined to confront the man whom he believed to be the
author of all his woes, Mr Headstone rose on the morrow, dressed himself in his
second best suit and set out in the direction of Doughty Street, which is just north of
Gray’s Inn in the borough of Camden.
He had been provided with reliable information from Mr Snodgrass that Mr
Dickens resided at number forty eight in that particular thoroughfare, and, as
Mr Snodgrass was himself a gentleman of literary pursuits, the pedagogue had no
reason to doubt the veracity of this intelligence. The street to which he was
bound was a private one, and, as an emblem of its status, had at its entrance a
lodge and a gate, which was presided over by a stout porter in a gold-laced hat
and a mulberry-coloured coat. Mr Headstone addressed this officer with the
deference that his uniform deserved, and, pressing a few coins into that worthy’s
upturned palm, gained admittance forthwith. Number Forty Eight was a tall
edifice of pink brick, distinguishable from its neighbours on either side by a
green door under a white arch. There was nothing at all particular about the knocker
on the door, except that it was very large; and when Mr Headstone applied a vigorous double-knock, it produced a sound designed to awaken even the
most somnolent housemaid. However, despite repeated applications of this
instrument of summons, the pedagogue was left waiting on the front step, and
here we must also leave the reader awhile until someone comes to answer the
door.
Mr Charles Dickens
