THE WRONG COAT
ing. Finally I succeeded in ridding myself of the crowds, and turned into a quiet and sober street. The sign on the lamp-post told me that I had arrived on the scene. It was twenty minutes past eleven. Two things were possible: either the girl had been killed the night before or I had half an hour or so in which to render her the greatest possible service.
The house proved to be a fine structure, one of those few dwellings in the metropolis that boast of anything like a court or yard. This yard was at the right of the building, and was more a roadway to the stables in the rear than anything else. Still, I may stretch it a point and call it a yard. I cast a hasty
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