John Steadman was surveying his with some amusement. “Certainly, we shall look like Yellow Dogs ourselves. You have had the cordon drawn all round as I suggested, inspector?”
“It is as narrow as can be, sir. They will almost be able to hear what we say. Oh, I am taking no risks. But I mean to catch the Big Yellow Dog himself to-night—dead or alive.”
“Ay! Dead or alive!” Steadman echoed. “You have been near him once or twice before, haven't you, inspector?”
“Not so near as I shall be to-night,” the inspector retorted.
They had no time for more. The taxi stopped and they got out. The inspector paused to give a few low-toned directions to the cabman, then he led the way down a side street. From this there seemed to Steadman to spread out in every direction, a perfect network of narrow streets and alleys. It was a veritable maze and the barrister would have been utterly bewildered, but the inspector apparently knew his ground, as he wound himself in and out with an eel-like dexterity. At last, however, he slackened his steps and then, side by side, he and Steadman made their way over the ill-kept, ill-lighted pavement. More than once the barrister heard a faint cheeping sound issue from the inspector's lips. Although he heard no response, he knew that the cordon that the detective had spoken of was in its place.
When the inspector stopped again he looked round and up and down, then turned sharply to the right into a small cul-de-sac apparently running between two high brick walls, for Steadman could see no windows on either side. As they were nearing the opposite end to that by which they had entered, however, they came upon a low door at the right. To the barrister's heated fancy there was something sinister about its very aspect. The windows on either side were grimy and closely shuttered; they and the door were badly in need of a coat of paint. What there was on it was blistered, and so filthy that it was impossible even to guess at its original colour. There was no sign of either knocker or bell, but right at the top of the door was a small grille through which the janitor could survey the applicants for admission, himself unseen. The inspector applied his knuckles to the door, softly at first, then with a crescendo of taps that was evidently a signal.
Steadman, with his eyes fixed on the grille, could see nothing, no faintest sign of movement, but for one moment he felt a sickening sense of being looked at, he could almost have fancied of being looked through. Then moving softly, noiselessly, in spite of its apparently dilapidated condition, the door in front of them opened.
The inspector stepped inside, Steadman keeping close to him, and gave the word—“Chink-a-pin,” and at the same moment Steadman became aware of a figure veiled in black from head to foot standing motionless against the wall behind the door. The door closed after them with a snap in which Steadman fancied he heard something ominous. They found themselves in a long, rather wide passage down which they proceeded, the inspector still leading; their bare hands held out in front of them, thumb-tip joined to thumb-tip, finger-tip to finger-tip. On the door at the end of the passage the inspector knocked again so softly that it seemed impossible that he should be heard.
However, as if by magic, this door opened suddenly.
Inside, in contrast with the brightness in the passage, everything looked dark, but gradually Steadman made out a faint, flickering light. A soft, sibilant voice spoke, this time apparently out of the air, since there was no sign of any speaker: