He had been going slowly the last few minutes, making ineffectual inquiries of the passers-by. Inside the car Mr. Steadman had Inspector Furnival seated beside him.
“Better drive to the nearest post-office and ask there. They will be sure to know.”
“Call this North Kensington, do they?” the barrister grumbled, as the car started again. “Seems to me in my young days it used to be called Notting Hill.”
The inspector laughed. “Think North Kensington sounds a bit more classy, I expect. Not but what there are some very decent old houses hereabouts. Oh, by Jove! Is this Brooklyn Terrace?” as the car turned into a side street that had apparently fallen on evil days. Each house evidently contained several tenants. In some cases slatternly women stood on the doorsteps, shouting remarks to their neighbours, while grubby-faced children played about in the gutter or crawled about on the doorsteps of their different establishments. It scarcely seemed the place in which would be found the missing managing clerk of Messrs. Bechcombe and Turner's establishment.
No. 10 was a little tidier than its neighbours, that is to say the door was shut and there were no children on the doorstep.
The chauffeur pulled up.
“This is it, sir.”
Mr. Steadman eyed it doubtfully.
“Well, inspector, I expect this really is the place.”
“It is the address in Mr. Bechcombe's book right enough, sir. As to whether Mr. Amos Thompson lives here—well, we shall soon see.”