Nicholas Dawson, waiting on the stony shore of the Tiber, began to shiver in the cold. He tucked his hands into the folds of his coat and swayed a little from one foot to the other, and cast a look around him, from the river to the swampy meadow behind him, stinking of rot. Usually he avoided this part of Rome even during the day, but the messenger had said, “Come alone.” The messenger had also spoken a certain name to him. But for that name he would never have come here at night, by himself. He had been waiting nearly an hour. The midnight bells would toil soon. He tried to control the shivering of his body. He began to think that he might leave—call it a hoax and leave. At that thought he stirred again, rocking on his feet set close together on the river stones. The Tiber rushed along in the dark; where its waters lapped on the shore a streak of garbage was cast up as the river passed. Ahead of him, the black smelly water broke white against the piers of an ancient bridge, broken with years, so that only two piers and one arch remained.
