Daniel edged out through Comstock's front gates and stood at the margin of Piccadilly, facing south towards St. James's. He could see a gentleman with a bag entering the Palace – probably a doctor coming to bleed a few pints from Anne Hyde's jugular. Off to his left, in the general direction of the river, was an open space – a vast construction site, now – about a quarter of a mile on a side, with Charing Cross on the opposite corner. Since it was night, and no workers were around, it seemed as if stone foundations and walls were growing up out of the ground through some process of spontaneous generation, like toadstools bursting from soil in the middle of the night.