“Our late visitor's history does not help us much,” he replied. “A somewhat distinguished¹ army career, and so forth², and his only daughter, Sybil Margaret, married the fifth Marquis of Ireton. She is, therefore, the noted³ society beauty, the Marchioness of Ireton. Does this suggest anything to your mind?”

 

“Nothing whatever,” I said blankly.

 

“Nor to mine,” murmured Harley.

 

The telephone bell rang.

 

“Hallo!” called Harley. “Yes. That you, Wessex? Have you got the address? Good. No, I shall remember it. Many thanks. Good-bye.”

 

He turned to me.

 

“I suggest, Knox,” he said, “that we make our call and then proceed to dinner as arranged.”

 

Since I was always glad of an opportunity of studying my friend's methods I immediately agreed, and ere long, leaving the lights of the two big hotels behind, our cab was gliding⁴ down the long slope which leads to Waterloo Station. Thence through crowded, slummish high-roads we made our way via Lambeth to that dismal⁵ thoroughfare, Westminster Bridge Road, with its forbidding, often windowless, houses, and its peculiar⁶ air of desolation.

 

The house for which we were bound was situated⁷ at no great distance from Kensington Park, and telling the cabman to wait, Harley and I walked up a narrow, paved path, mounted a flight of steps, and rang the bell beside a somewhat time-worn door, above which was an old-fashioned fanlight dimly illuminated

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