jumped out and rang the bell of the side door of the shop. It was opened after awhile by a shock-headed youth, about eighteen years of age, who stared at us in sleepy astonishment.
"Does Mr. Maxwell live at the shop?" asked the inspector.
"No, sir."
"Where then?"
"Ponson Street—third house on the left-hand side."
"Thank you."
Once more we jumped into the cab and rattled off. It seemed to me, so anxious and terrified was I for my darling's safety, as if we were fated never to get the information we wanted; the whole thing was like some dreadful nightmare, in which, try how I would to move, every step was clogged.
A few minutes' drive brought us to Ponson Street, and we drew up at the third house on the left-hand side. It was a pretty little villa, with a nice front garden and a creeper-covered verandah. We rang the bell and waited. Presently we heard someone coming down the passage, and the door was unlocked.
"Who is there?" cried a voice from within.
"Police," said my companion once more.
The door was immediately opened, and a very small sandy-complexioned man, dressed in a flaring suit of striped pyjamas, stood before us.
"Is anything wrong, gentlemen?" he asked nervously.
"Nothing to affect you, Mr. Maxwell," my companion replied. "We only want a little important information, if you can give it us. We are anxious to discover a man's whereabouts before daylight, and we have been
