Stolen Souls by William le Queux

Frith Street is the centre of the foreign quarter of London. The narrow, shabby thoroughfare retains, even on the brightest day in summer, its habitual depressing air of grimy cheerlessness; but enveloped in the yellow fog of a November evening, its aspect is unutterably dismal. Its denizens are a very shady colony, mostly the scum of Continental cities, who, owing to various causes, have been compelled to flee from the police and seek a safe asylum in the region between Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street.

In a meagrely furnished sitting-room on the top floor of one of the dingiest houses in this mean street, a young man sat gazing moodily into the fire. He was of foreign appearance, about twenty-six years of age -- tall, dark, and rather good-looking. His negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing, yet his pale face wore a grave, thoughtful expression, as his chin rested upon his hand in an utterly dejected attitude.