nine o'clock precisely
Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness , so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles . Policemen whistled at their posts -- clerks , on their way to work ; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference . It was one of those happy mornings . At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street , Leicester Square , opened and a young man stepped out . Of all the spots in London which may fairly be described as backwaters there is none that answers so completely to the description as Arundell Street , Leicester Square . Passing along the north sidewalk of the square , just where it joins Piccadilly , you hardly notice the bottleneck opening of the tiny cul-de-sac . Day and night the human flood roars past , ignoring it .