He got out first and knocked at the door, the barrister following meekly. The car waiting at the side was the object of enormous interest to the denizens of the street. There was no response to the knock for some time. At last a small child in the next area called out:
“You'll have to go down, they don't never come to that there door!”
Mr. Steadman put up his glass and peered over the palings. A slatternly-looking woman was just looking out of the back door.
“Can you let us in, my good woman?” the barrister called out. “We want Mr. Thompson.”
The woman muttered something, probably scenting a tip, and presently they heard her clattering along the passage.
“Mr. Thompson, is it?” she said as she admitted them. “His room is up at the top.”
“Is he at home?” Inspector Furnival questioned.
The woman stared at him. “I don't know. If you just like to walk up you will find out.”
The stairs were wide, for the house had seen better days, but indescribably dirty. Up at the very top it was a little cleaner. There were several doors on the landing but nothing to show which, if any, was Thompson's. As they stood there, wondering which it could be, an old man came up behind them.
“Were you looking for anyone, gentlemen?” he asked, in a weak, quavering voice that told that, like the house, he had fallen on evil times.