morning light. On discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture.”
“Well, what am I to do, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have a great fancy to see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Warren.”
“I don’t see how that is to be managed, unless you break in the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the tray.”
“He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves and see him do it.”
The landlady thought for a moment.
“Well, sir, there’s the box-room opposite. I could arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door—”
“Excellent!” said Holmes. “When does he lunch?”
“About one, sir.”
“Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye.”
At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs. Warren’s house—a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the north-east side of the British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it commands a view down Howe Street, with its more pretentious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these,
