Downtown London during the early mornings is bustling with signs of life waking to a new dawn. Some people hustle down the cold streets to open shops and such hardly notice the goings of the homeless sleeping in the alleyways. Thus the usual morning begins. Just as the opening of the typewriting center. Women rush in a hurry to start work. To the average respectable person, it was a blissful day.

One street began to waken from its slumber like a dream. The morning had brought a brusque chill with the upcoming winter ahead for Roald Street. An old man sat against a wall with a ragged discolored blanket wrapped around him. A tin cup was settled in front of him waiting for donations. One buggy slowly neared "Oliver's Book printing" a dainty shop with royal blue draperies hanging in the windows waiting for the interior to be opened to the city. Half a dozen people bustled about in stuffed coats in a hurry to accomplish their own errands and tasks. Soft talking and the steady clopping of horses with the creaking of the buggy could be heard for a mile. This was another peaceful morning.

There was a soft noise coming from across "Johnson's Typography, Telegraph and Typewriting." Mumbling could be heard from a stooped figure shuffling around in the shadows directly across from the Johnson's store. A knock sounded from within the dark alleyway. The shadow of the person moved as the sound of a door creaked open. Candlelight illuminated the outline of the veiled hunchbacked figure dressed in black.

"Can ye spare me yer bread. I'm arfully 'ungry ." A high frail voice filled the silence.

"Go get food from the baker. I don' give out food." A deep resonating male voice rang out in annoyance.

"The baker wants six pence for a loaf. I don' have the money."

"I don' give food ta beggars. Depart naw. I won't be dealing wit' you!" Suddenly there was darkness as the door squeaked shut. The hunched figure seemed to disappear as a moving crate was heard against dirt then a click. Seconds later, inside an enclosed area, a lamp was lit to reveal a stooped person in a black veil and black drapery. The figure took off the black veil and robes to reveal an old woman dressed in rags. The cloak and veil were placed in a tight sealing box which she placed under a slab of rock in the pooled murky water. In her hands laid a sealed letter from her 'begging'. She scanned the contents while walking toward her unapparent destination through the pipes.

Report on John Brown's goings, suspected crime syndicate. Meet per usual at T73P.

"Tsking" was heard as the woman scowled at the note then burned it in her lantern.