Slowly he walked back to Grape Street, his head bowed against the wind; when he reached the door, he looked up at Mrs West's window and saw two shadows thrown by the firelight upon the ceiling. So she has found a man at last, was his thought as he entered the passageway; it was dark here but at once he saw a small package, addressed to him, which seemed to have been tossed over the threshold. It was wrapped in coarse brown paper: he took it in both hands, held it out in front of him, and climbed the stairs to his own flat. Then, still in his overcoat, he sat down in his bare front room and tore open the parcel greedily: there was a small book within it, with a shiny white cover which was slightly sticky to the touch as if it had recently been coated in wax or resin. As soon as he opened it he saw the same drawing: the man was kneeling and holding something like a spy glass against his right eye. On other pages there were verses, sketches in the form of a cross and then on separate sheets certain phrases inscribed in brown ink -The Fortitude of the Stars', The Power In Images', The Seven Wounds'; towards the end Hawksmoor read, 'O Misery, They Shall Die' and in his horror he dropped the white book upon the floor, where it lay as the darkness of the night changed to the grey of the winter dawn. At which time he was thinking of the man who had drawn the kneeling figure beside St Mary Woolnoth; the tramp's shape was just above Hawksmoor's own as he stretched wide-eyed upon his bed, as if both of them were stone effigies of the dead lying above each other in an empty church.

'I'm still interested in that tramp,' he said as soon as Walter had entered the room.

'Which one was that, sir?'

The tramp by the church. The one who made the drawing.' He turned away from Walter to hide his eagerness. 'Do you still have the letter?' And after a brief search among the files arranged neatly on Hawksmoor's desk, it was found. It seemed so flimsy, just a sheet torn from a memorandum pad with the words 'Don't Forget' printed at its top, and at that moment Hawksmoor made a simple connection: it was as if he had climbed higher and, seeing much further into the distance, had lost his fear. 'Where,' he asked, 'is the nearest class- house to that church?'

The nearest one to the City is in the Commercial Road, it's that old building '

The one between Limehouse and Wapping?'

As they drove across London to the Commercial Road, Hawksmoor felt quite calm and allowed his fingers lightly to touch the letter placed in the inside pocket of his jacket. But as soon as they arrived he left the car hurriedly and dashed up the steps of a grimy brick building: Walter looked at him running ahead, beneath the grey London sky, and pitied him. Following Hawksmoor, he opened the wooden doors of the hostel, saw the faded green paint of its interior and the linoleum floors stained with grease or dirt, smelt the mixture of disinfectant and stale food, heard the faint calls and sounds from within the building.

And by this time Hawksmoor was knocking on a glass partition, behind which sat an elderly man eating a sandwich: 'Excuse me,' he was saying, 'Excuse me' as the man slowly put down his food and, apparently with reluctance, slid back the glass partition and murmured 'Oh yes?'

'You work here, I take it?'

'What does it look like to you?'

Hawksmoor cleared his throat. 'I am a police officer.' He handed him the letter. 'Do you recognise this piece of paper?'

The man pretended to study it. 'Yes, I've seen this kind of paper.

The staff use it. Don't ask me why.' He took out of a drawer a memorandum pad with the same words printed across it. 'What can you forget in a place like this?'

'And do you recognise the handwriting?' Walter noticed that Hawksmoor had become very still.

'Well, it's not mine.'

'I know it's not yours. But do you recognise it?'

'Not as far as I know.'

And Walter saw Hawksmoor nod, as if this was exactly what he had expected. Tell me this, then. Have you come across a tramp called the Architect, or anything like that?'

He blinked and put his finger in the air. 'We have the Preacher, the Flying Dutchman, the Pilgrim. But I don't know of any Architect. He'll be a new one on me.'

Hawksmoor stared at him. 'Do you mind if we have a look around?'

'Be my guest. ' His eyes briefly met those of Hawksmoor. 'You'll find just two of them there. They're supposed to be sick.'

Walter followed Hawksmoor down a corridor and into a large room which contained some formica tables and metal chairs: a large television set, placed upon a high shelf, had been turned on and the sounds of a children's programme chimed as emptily as an ice-cream van in a deserted street. Hawksmoor glanced up at it before walking through into another room where a number of mattresses, wrapped in plastic, had been arranged in two rows. On one of them a tramp lay upon his stomach, while a second man was crouched in a corner smoking. 'Hello,' Walter called out, 'And what do they call you, then?'

Neither of the men looked up. 'We are police officers. Do you know what I mean?' And then, in the silence, Walter added loudly: 'They're not very friendly, sir, are they?'

The tramp in the corner turned his head: 'I know what you mean. I know full well what you mean.'

Hawksmoor stepped up to him, without coming too close: 'Oh do you? And I suppose you know someone called the Architect?'

There was a pause. 'I don't know anyone by that name. No one at all by that name.' He wrapped his arms about his body as he crouched there: 'You don't enquire about people. You don't ask questions'. It was not clear whether he was addressing these remarks to himself, or to Hawksmoor who was now surveying the dilapidated room.

The Architect!' The tramp on the bed had propped himself on one elbow and was calling out to them. The Architect! God bless us all and every one!'

Hawksmoor moved up to the end of the bed, and stood with his hands clasped as if in prayer. 'Do you know him?'

'Do I know him? Do I know him? Yes, I know him.'

'And do you know his name? I mean, his real name.'

'His name is Legion.' When the tramp laughed it was obvious to Hawksmoor that he was lying on the bed because he was drunk, perhaps still drunk from the night before.

'And where can I find him?'

'Do you have a little cigarette on you, officer?'

'I don't have one now, but I will give you some later. Where did you say I could find him?'

'I don't find him. He finds me. Now you see him and now you don't.'

Everyone remained silent and, as Hawksmoor sat down on the side of this bed, he heard the noise of a plane travelling somewhere overhead. 'And when did you see him last?'

'I saw him in Hell. He was roasting nicely.'

'No, you weren't in Hell were you? Tell me again.'

Then the man's mood changed as he curled up on the bed and faced the wall. 'I was with him,' he said and the whole sad weight of the drink seemed to hit him so that he could barely speak.

Hawksmoor gently touched his filthy overcoat. 'You were with him, were you? You look like a man who could deal a powerful blow.'

'Hop it. Fuck it. I'm saying no more.'

Walter came up to stand beside him as Hawksmoor whispered, 'Now don't be frightened. I'm not going to frighten anybody.' There was a sound of weeping in the corridor.

'I'm not frightened. I've done nothing.' Then he pretended to sleep, or perhaps did sleep; Hawksmoor pointed to the tramp's arm which lay stretched out, and Walter gave it a jerk so that the man rolled off his bed.

'You're wanted,' Hawksmoor told him, loudly now, as Walter dragged him to his feet. 'I'm not arresting you. I'm asking you nicely to come with me.' The tramp stared at him. There will be something in it for you, you'll see. We're just taking you for a little ride.'