"Look here," he said, "let's have that story of yours again, a
little more clearly. Who is it that's in this house?"
"Five minutes ago," Tavernake began, speaking rapidly, "I met a
man in the Strand whom I know slightly--Pritchard, an American
detective. He said that he had something to say to me and he
asked me to walk round with him to a club in this Terrace. We
were in the middle of the road there, talking, when a man sprang
at him; he must have come up behind quite noiselessly. The man
had a knife in his hand. My friend threw him head over heels
-- it was some trick of jiu-jutsu; I have seen it done at the
Polytechnic. He fell in front of this door which must either
have been ajar or else some one who was waiting must have let him
in. He crawled through and my friend followed him. The door was
slammed in my face."
"How long ago was this?" the policeman asked.
"Not much more than five minutes," Tavernake answered.
The policeman coughed.
"It's a very queer story, sir."
"It's true!" Tavernake declared, fiercely. "You and I have got
to search this house."
The policeman nodded.
"There's no harm in that, sir, anyway."
He flashed his lantern around the hall--unfurnished, with paper
hanging from the walls. Then they began to enter the rooms, one
by one. Nowhere was there any sign of occupation. From floor to
floor they passed, in grim silence. In the front chamber of the
attic was a camp bedstead, two or three humble articles of
furniture, and a small stove.
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