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It was the third of July. The heat and closeness of the air had become quite unbearable. The day had been a busy one for Velchaninoff -- he had been walking and driving about without rest, and had still in prospect a visit in the evening to a certain state councillor who lived somewhere on the Chornaya Riechka (black stream), and whom he was anxious to drop in upon unexpectedly.
At six o'clock our hero issued from his house once more, and trudged off to dine at a restaurant on the Nefsky, near the police-bridge -- a second-rate sort of place, but French. Here he took his usual corner, and ordered his usual dinner, and waited.