The constable made no reply but moved off. Soon he reached the
corner of the Terrace and disappeared. Tavernake slowly crossed
the road and with his back to the railings looked steadfastly at
the dark front of gray stone houses. Big Ben struck one o'clock,
several people passed backwards and forwards. Men were coming
out from the club, and separating for the night; the roar of the
city was growing fainter. Yet Tavernake felt indisposed to move.
The look in that man's drawn white face and black eyes haunted
him, There was tragedy there, the shadow of terrible things,
fear, and the murderous desire to kill! Through that door they
had passed, the two men, one in flight, the other in pursuit.
Where were they now? Perhaps it had been a trap. Pritchard had
spoken seriously enough of his enemies.
Then, as he stood there, he saw for the first time a thin line of
light through the closely-drawn curtains of a room on the ground
floor of the adjoining house. Without a moment's hesitation, he
crossed the road and rang the bell. The door was opened, after a
trifling delay, by a man in plain clothes, who might, however,
have been a servant in mufti. He looked at Tavernake
suspiciously.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you," Tavernake explained, "but I
saw some one go in the house next to you, a little time ago. Can
you tell me if you have heard any noises or voices during the
last half-hour?"
The man shook his head.
"We have heard nothing, sir," he said.
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