their way to prison, or worse. These people often carried with them memories of his politeness and fairness. Mr Utterson’s best friend was a distant cousin called Richard Enfield, who was well known as a fun-loving ‘man about town’. Nobody could understand why they were friends, as they were different from each other in every way. They often took long walks together, however, marching through the streets of London in companionable silence. One of these walks used to take them down a narrow side-street in a busy part of London. It was a clean, busy, friendly street with bright little shops and shiny doorknockers. Near the end of this street, however, stood a dark, mysterious, windowless building. The door had neither bell nor knocker and looked dusty and uncared for. Dirty children played fearlessly on the doorstep, and nobody ever opened the door to drive them away. One day, as Mr Enfield and his friend passed the building, Mr Enfield pointed to it. ‘Have you ever noticed that place?’ he asked. ‘It reminds me of a very strange story.’ ‘Really?’ said Mr Utterson. ‘Tell me.’

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