The Four Signets

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The point of a heavy cane was clicking upon the cracked pavement. Bent forward, a man with black spectacles was finding his way along the sidewalk beneath the looming structure of an East Side elevated.

It was night; the dull lights of cheap shop windows cast their glow upon the street. But the man with the cane seemed oblivious of the illumination. His right hand was feeling its way with the cane, while his left clutched a tin cup in which coins were jingling. From pockets bristled the ends of unsharpened pencils.

A blind peddler, returning to some hovel. Not an unusual sight in this district. For the other passers who slouched along the grimy sidewalk were fellows of his ilk. Unshaven bums were shambling by, clutching the money that they had begged for a night’s lodging.

Ahead lay a lighted corner, where a wide cross-street passed beneath the elevated. This seemed to be the spot that lured the passers of the night, even though they approached it in suspicious fashion. That corner was a focal point on the fringe of Manhattan’s underworld.

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